>UL 
ENOR 


HENDERSON 


ii 


GIFT   OF 
Sir  Henry  Heyrnan 


V\ 


She  took  the  flower  from  her  mouth  and  struck  him  gently  across  the 
lips  with  it,  and  sang:  "E  bello  e  ardito".     (Page  73) 


THE 
SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

A  ROMANCE 


By 
W.   J.    HENDERSON 

Author  of  "The  Story  of  Music,"  "The  Art  of  the  Singer," 
"Some  Forerunners  of  Italian  Opera" 


Frontispiece  in  color  by 
GEORGE   GIBBS 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  October,  1912 


Sf  \      WUJiu 


THE  QUINN  A  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 
RAHWAY.  N.  J. 


X 

5 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

THERE  are  no  portraits  in  this  story.  I  have 
dared  to  give  a  momentary  glimpse  of  one  supreme 
interpreter,  but  none  of  the  other  characters  in 
this  book  ever  existed.  The  need  of  a  "  local 
habitation  and  a  name  "  led  to  the  choice  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  as  the  theater  of 
scenes  in  the  drama.  Those  who  are  acquainted 
with  the  history  of  the  institution  will  know  that 
no  such  company  as  that  found  in  this  book  ever 
sang  there,  and  that  none  of  the  incidents  ever 
took  place.  No  more  did  those  placed  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  opera  house.  But  opera  land  is 
an  existing  country;  and  a  real  artist  might  be 
born  in  it  in  some  such  way  as  is  hereinafter  set 

forth. 

W.  J.  H. 


55250  > 


THE   SOUL   OF   A   TENOR 


M 


CHAPTER  I 
RS.    HARLEY    MANNERS,    iust  si 


ping  from  her  car  in  front  of  the  Waldorf- 
Astoria,  was  a  vision  of  radiant  expectancy.  She 
was  hastening  to  one  of  those  perfectly  delightful 
Monday  morning  musicales  at  which,  for  an  in 
considerable  price,  you  could  sit  and  rub  shoul 
ders  with  people  right  in  the  heart  of  the  smart 
set.  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  was  not  in  that  set. 
She  knew  many  people  in  it,  and  purred  audibly 
when  they  spoke  to  her.  When  they  did  not, 
which  was  the  more  usual  occurrence,  she  retained 
her  composure  and  waited.  She  knew  that  all 
of  them  would  have  to  speak  to  her  from  time  to 
time,  for  she  was  a  cheerful  and  insistent  laborer 
on  all  sorts  of  committees  for  charitable  entertain 
ments,  benefits,  and  what  not.  She  was  always 


2  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

ready  to  do  most  of  the  work,  all  of  the  talking, 
and  to  sign  a  really  handsome  check. 

So  when  she  went  to  a  Monday  morning 
musicale,  and  the  sun  of  the  smart  set  shone  upon 
her,  she  was  repaid.  If  at  the  next  one  the 
heavens  were  covered  with  gloomy  gray  clouds, 
she  imperturbably  drew  her  wraps  about  her  and 
waited  for  brighter  weather.  Some  people  might 
have  called  her  a  climber,  but  climbers  usually  at 
tain  higher  altitudes,  especially  in  the  complicated 
jungle  of  New  York  Society.  No,  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners  was  not  a  climber,  for  she  never  rose. 
She  was  just  a  sitter.  She  sat  tight  and  waited 
for  what  never  came.  But  her  faith  and  patience 
were  inexhaustible,  and  she  had  a  perennial  ob 
ject  in  life.  She  was  trying  to  live  down  the  ap 
palling  fact  that  her  husband  was  not  a  banker, 
a  broker,  or  even  a  wine  merchant,  but  a  hotel 
provision  contractor. 

So  she  stepped  from  her  olive  limousine  just  as 
if  she  were  one  of  the  elect.  She  moved  briskly 
toward  the  entrance.  She  was  early.  That  was 
part  of  her  policy.  By  going  early  she  was  more 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  3 

likely  to  catch  opportunities  to  corner  in  conversa 
tion  women  who  would  have  dodged  her  at  the 
last  moment.  On  this  particular  Monday  morn 
ing  her  plans  were  frustrated  by  the  unexpected 
advent  of  Philip  Studley,  who,  in  the  most  incon 
sequent  and,  indeed,  inessential  manner,  chanced 
to  be  passing  the  huge  hotel.  Studley  was  a  non 
descript  in  the  seething  life  of  New  York.  He 
was  the  music  critic  of  a  morning  newspaper,  and 
enjoyed  all  the  glory  and  humiliations  of  such 
a  position.  One  of  the  humiliations  was  having 
to  endure  the  diplomatic  enthusiasms  of  Mrs.  Har- 
ley  Manners  and  her  breed.  For  when  this  distin 
guished  sitter  was  not  abiding  in  the  neighborhood 
of  smart-set  persons,  she  passed  her  hours  in 
prostration  before  the  throne  of  some  musical 
celebrity.  Next  to  receiving  a  smile  from  a  society 
leader,  she  valued  having  a  musical  personage  at 
luncheon  or  dinner.  Philip  Studley  was  a  sort  of 
musical  personage.  At  any  rate,  musical  per 
sonages  talked  about  him.  Some  blessed  him  and 
many  cursed  him. 

Some  of  those  singular  creatures  who  regard 


4  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

it  as  an  object  in  life  to  attend  performances  of 
operas  generally  wearisome  to  their  jaded  minds 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  gathering  in  exclusive  com 
partments  denominated  boxes  and  making  known 
to  all  the  world  the  pregnant  fact  that  they  be 
long  to  a  coterie  set  above  the  small  army  of 
nonentities  in  the  orchestra  stalls,  some  of  these 
self-satisfied  fugitives  from  the  brotherhood  of 
mankind  were  in  the  habit  of  giving  vent  from 
time  to  time  to  their  opinions  of  Studley  and  his 
kind.  They  asserted  that  plebeians  such  as  he 
should  not  be  permitted  to  discuss  in  newspapers 
the  doings  of  the  entertainers  hired  to  amuse  the 
lords  and  ladies  of  creation.  Some  of  the  men 
were  more  deeply  wounded  by  the  critical  com 
ments  than  the  women  were,  but  only  when  the 
offensive  comments  affected  certain  feminine  song 
birds. 

And  so  it  chanced  at  times  that  the  war  of 
words  about  some  newspaper  scribbler  waxed 
quite  hot,  and  it  was  known  that  on  more  than 
one  occasion  the  expulsion  of  Philip  Studley  from 
the  theater  had  been  formally  demanded  at  meet- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  5 

ings  of  the  board  of  directors.  But  wiser  heads 
had  always  prevailed,  for  there  was  much  influence 
in  the  argument  that  expulsion  would  confer  too 
much  seeming  importance  on  a  very  unimportant 
person.  And  so  Studley's  name  was  from  time 
to  time  in  the  mouths  of  men  and  women  to  whom 
Mrs.  Harley  Manners  adoringly  looked  up  from 
her  seat  among  the  sitters.  Furthermore,  he 
served  as  a  target  for  Mrs.  Manners'  most  pointed 
comments  on  "  art "  and  "  artists."  In  their 
world  these  words  meant  music  and  people  who 
made  it  or  performed  it.  She  could  talk  with  her 
most  eloquent  ignorance  to  Studley,  and  wet  him 
down  from  head  to  foot  with  her  little  amateur 
smatterings,  and  he  had  to  answer  tolerantly  be 
cause  she  was  a  woman.  Otherwise  he  was  not 
especially  useful,  because  he  would  not  mingle 
freely  in  the  circles  of  those  about  whom  he  had  to 
write,  and  he  was  acquainted  with  only  two  or 
three  "  artists."  He  could  not  widen  the  sphere 
of  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  by  introducing  her  to 
more  celebrities.  She  knew  twenty  times  as  many 
of  them  as  he  did.  But  it  was  fated  that  on  this 


6  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

particular  morning  he  was  to  present  to  Mrs.  Man 
ners  a  shocking  and  delicious  piece  of  information. 

"  Going  to  the  musicale,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
as  he  bowed  to  her. 

"  I  rarely  miss  one,"  she  replied,  smiling  up 
into  his  face  with  that  boyish  frankness  which 
was  her  only  charm;  "and  to-day  I  am  so  in 
terested.  There  are  to  be  examples  of  early 
French  music  sung  by  that  marvelous  French  tenor, 
Remy." 

"Yes,"  said  Studley  thoughtfully;  "queer, 
though,  isn't  it,  that  he  has  to  roam  around  the 
country  doing  this  sort  of  thing,  instead  of  singing 
in  opera,  either  here  or  in  Paris?  " 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Manners  earnestly, 
"  that  he  is  such  a  true  artist  that  he  prefers  to 
do  this  sort  of  work,  in  which  he  is  entirely  un 
hampered  by  the  notions  of  impresarios  or  con 
ductors." 

"  Yes,  I  rather  fancied  that  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  He  is  an  artist.  That  is  undeniable." 

He  stopped  short  to  smile  brightly  and  bow  to 
a  very  erect  young  woman  who  was  passing  in  a 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  7 

dark-tinted  limousine  car.  Mrs.  Harley  Manners 
stared  at  her.  Studley  looked  a  little  amused. 

"  Don't  you  know  her?  "  he  asked. 

"  No/'  replied  Mrs.  Manners,  "  I  do  not.  But, 
really,  Mr.  Studley,  I  must  be  hastening  or  I  shall 
be  late." 

"  Good-by,"  he  said;  "  I'm  quite  sure  you  will 
become  acquainted  with  Helen  Montgomery. 
Baroni  is  paying  her  ardent  attention.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  something  really  serious  might  come  of 
it.  Good-morning." 

He  walked  away,  leaving  her  bereft  of  speech, 
or  even  breath,  for  that  was  the  very  first  minute 
that  any  one  outside  of  the  inner  circle  of  the  music 
world  had  heard  of  this  thing.  Mrs.  Manners 
rushed  up  to  the  concert  room  and  made  a  dozen 
frantic  efforts  to  entice  social  persons  into  con 
versation  before  she  remembered  that  she  had 
never  seen  the  name  of  Helen  Montgomery  re 
corded  "  among  those  present."  Then  she  won 
dered  if  Henry  Murtha,  the  society  reporter  of 
a  certain  great  daily,  would  know.  So  when 
she  was  about  to  go  to  her  seat,  she  luckily  caught 


8  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

him,  and,  pushing  him  into  a  corner  whence  he 
could  not  escape,  said: 

'Who  is  Helen  Montgomery?" 
'  What  Helen  Montgomery  do  you  mean?  "  he 
answered. 

"  I  don't  know,  except  that  she  is  the  one  Baroni 
is  attentive  to." 

"Ah,  yes;  but  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to 
know  anything  about  that.  You  might  ask  one  of 
the  musical  news  reporters." 

But  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  drew  the  line  there. 
She  decided  that  she  would  wait,  because  all  things 
come  to  those  who  wait,  and  she  would  not  have 
to  wait  more  than  two  hours.  She  was  going 
right  home,  and  one  of  her  guests  at  luncheon  was 
a  member  of  the  opera  company.  Then  she  would 
find  out.  How  dared  any  mere  woman  aspire  to 
the  attentions  of  the  great  Baroni? 

Born  plain  Leander  Barrett,  he  had  lived  the 
more  or  less  eventful  life  of  a  Pittsburgher  till  he 
reached  the  age  of  seventeen.  He  was  then  in  his 
Freshman  year  at  a  famous  university,  and  had 
"  made  the  glee  club."  Fortunately  for  him,  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  9 

university  had  a  department  of  music,  and  its  head 
was  one  of  those  uncommon  men  who  know  some 
thing  about  the  singing  voice.  He  heard  Barrett 
sing  once  or  twice,  and  then  sent  for  him.  He 
asked  him  what  he  expected  to  do  after  gradua 
tion,  and  learned  that  the  young  man  contemplated 
the  study  of  law.  Having  ascertained  that  the 
parents  of  this  youth  were  not  of  such  deadening 
social  rank  that  they  might  not  be  brought  to 
consider  an  artistic  career  for  their  son,  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  old  Peter  Barrett,  which 
brought  that  excellent  man  by  express  to  an  inter 
view.  The  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  the 
parents  of  young  Barrett  were  convinced  that  their 
son  had  an  extraordinary  tenor  voice,  and  that  it 
might  be  his  fortune. 

The  head  of  the  music  department  assured  the 
parents  that  there  was  a  thoroughly  competent 
teacher  in  the  city  where  the  college  was,  and  thus 
it  came  about  that  young  Barrett  was  permitted  to 
continue  his  course  and  graduate  before  he  was 
sent  to  Europe  to  finish  his  studies.  In  Europe 
his  master  found  him  thoroughly  well  grounded  i/i 


io  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

voice  technie,  and  proceeded  to  impart  the  neces 
sary  instructions  in  style  and  interpretation.  In 
four  years  the  young  man,  who,  curiously  enough, 
refused  to  go  too  fast,  was  ready  for  his  debut. 
He  appeared  as  Elvino  in  "  La  Sonnambula  "  at 
the  Teatro  Bellini  in  Catania,  and  the  astonished 
Italians  rose  at  him.  They  had  not  heard  anything 
like  him  in  many,  many  years.  His  voice  was  the 
true  lyric  tenor,  but  of  uncommon  power,  and  he 
sang  with  a  tone  production  absolutely  perfect, 
so  that  his  entire  scale  was  perfectly  equalized,  and 
his  command  of  a  ravishing  mezza  voce  enabled 
him  to  whisper  sentiment  into  the  soprano's  ear 
in  an  irresistible  manner.  In  two  months  he  was 
engaged  for  Milan,  where  his  Edgardo  was  a  sen 
sation.  In  less  than  a  year  he  sang  Romeo  in 
Paris.  Two  seasons  later  he  was  engaged  for  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  and  in  one  more  he 
reached  Covent  Garden.  Leander  Barrett,  of 
Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  had  conquered  the  world. 

It  was  universally  conceded  that  he  was  in 
some  ways  the  most  gifted  tenor  since  Jean  de 
Reszke.  The  Boston  Herald  declared  that  he 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  n 

was  far  greater,  because  one  night,  when  he  had  a 
cold,  he  sang  out  of  tune,  and  this  the  Boston  man 
declared  showed  that  he  was  not  a  mere  vocal 
machine.  The  Evening  Post  of  New  York  fell  at 
his  feet  because,  when  made  up  for  Lohengrin,  he 
was  the  image  of  Max  Alvary.  That  he  sang  it 
like  Campanini  was  not  mentioned.  The  Tribune 
published  a  deprecatory  essay  two  columns  long 
after  he  sang  DonOttavio  inMozart's  inaccessible 
"  Don  Giovanni,"  and  a  sprightly  weekly  printed 
eight  pictures  of  him  and  his  shoes  and  stockings, 
with  a  Sunday  page  giving  an  intimate  account  of 
his  manner  of  taking  his  morning  bath  and  dress 
ing  for  the  day.  The  American  expressed  regrets 
about  him  because,  being  an  American,  he  did  not 
advocate  opera  in  English.  The  Sun  went  into  a 
profound  analysis  of  his  vocal  method  and  his 
treatment  of  recitative  in  all  schools  of  opera, 
showing  thereby  that  he  was  a  greater  master  of 
the  lyric  art  than  Farinelli  or  Garat,  singers  of 
whom  the  readers  of  the  article  had  never  heard, 
and  about  whom,  therefore,  they  cared  absolutely 
nothing.  The  Times  asserted  that  he  had  no 


12  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

method  at  all,  and  that  this  was  what  made  him  a 
truly  great  singer. 

The  truth  was  that  Baroni,  as  the  world  called 
him,  had  a  perfect  tenor  voice  of  two  octaves  and 
one  note.  He  had  a  high  D  flat  in  his  scale,  but 
never  used  it  except  occasionally  in  vocalizing. 
He  valued  it  because  it  kept  his  C  in  comfort.  He 
had  personal  magnetism,  graceful  action,  and  a 
blind  musical  instinct  which  led  him  to  make  ef 
fective  and  even  bewitching,  if  not  logical,  nuances. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was  a  highly  cultivated 
gentleman,  who  had  profited  greatly  by  the  serious 
studies  of  his  university  course.  The  fact  was  that 
he  had  passed  through  the  university  much  as  hunT 
dreds  of  other  young  men  do.  He  had  lived  the 
life  of  a  club  man,  and  some  of  the  floating  dust 
of  learning  which  was  in  the  surrounding  atmos 
phere  had  settled  upon  his  shoulders.  He  was  not 
well  informed,  nor  had  he  any  intellectual  acumen. 
He  was  not  a  musician,  nor  a  true  lyric  artist;  but 
he  had  the  talent  of  the  theater,  and  this  informed 
his  singing  with  a  routine  eloquence  which  he  him 
self  could  not  rightly  have  explained. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  13 

So  Baroni  conquered  the  world,  and  women 
threw  themselves  in  his  path  and  begged  him  to 
trample  upon  their  souls.  But  he  was  a  singularly 
decent  chap,  and  laughed  at  nearly  all  of  them. 
He  had  his  little  affairs,  but  they  were  without  ex 
ception  confined  to  his  profession.  On  the  whole, 
he  lived  a  remarkably  respectable  life  for  an  all- 
conquering  tenor. 

Mrs.  Harley  Manners  did  not  hear  any  of  the 
music  at  that  Monday  morning  musicale.  She 
was  thinking  how  stupid  she  had  been  not  to  ques 
tion  Studley.  But  she  had  really  been  startled  into 
mental  numbness.  Now,  as  the  last  note  was  still 
vibrating  on  the  air,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
intercepted  Mrs.  Harold  Keen,  who  stared  at  her. 

"  Do  you  chance,  Mrs.  Keen,"  said  Mrs.  Man 
ners,  with  her  sweetest  accent,  "  to  know  Helen 
Montgomery?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Keen, 
sweeping  slowly  onward. 

"  Not  in  the  old  set,"  reflected  Mrs.  Manners, 
and  then  she  halted  Mrs.  Fifi  Stebbins,  of  the  new 
set,  who  answered  vaguely,  "  There  are  Mont- 


i4  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

gomerys  almost  anywhere,  but  I  don't  recall  any 
Helen.1' 

Then  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  chased  Mrs.  Peter 
Weismann,  who  was  in  neither  set,  and  yet  was  not 
in  Mrs.  Manners'  own  immediate  circle.  And  she 
also  never  heard  of  this  Helen  Montgomery. 
Defeated  all  along  the  line,  Mrs.  Harley  Manners 
returned  to  her  car  and  directed  the  chauffeur  to 
take  her  home.  And  then  kind  fortune  smiled  on 
her,  for  almost  at  her  very  door  she  spied  Pro 
fessor  Silas  Mabon,  the  distinguished  chemist,  and 
she  stopped  the  car  to  engage  him  in  conversation, 
which  speedily  led  to  the  all-important  question. 

"  I  know  a  Helen  Montgomery — that  is,  I  know 
of  her,  I  am  not  acquainted  with  her.  My  niece 
knows  her,"  said  the  Professor.  "  She  is  the 
daughter  of  Edward  Montgomery,  the  great 
carpet  manufacturer." 

"  Is  Mr.  Montgomery  rich?  " 

"  I  have  been  told  that  he  is  worth  three  or  four 
millions." 

"  A-h-h-h-h!  "  whispered  Mrs.  Manners  to  her 
own  heart. 


CHAPTER  II 

T3HILIP  STUDLEY  walked  along  Fifth  Ave- 
•*•  nue,  and  turned  into  a  side  street,  where  he 
entered  a  club.  It  was  not  a  fashionable  club,  nor 
one  in  which  the  sons  of  millionaires  would  be 
found.  It  was  one  of  those  quiet  unobtrusive  re 
treats  which,  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  of  New 
York's  wild  pursuit  of  wealth  and  social  distinc 
tion,  thrive  in  the  green  peace  of  intellectual  ob 
scurity.  Studley,  being  a  newspaper  writer,  knew 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  but  those  who 
frequented  this  club,  he  felt,  were  of  his  own 
people.  Perhaps  he  would  have  known  more  had 
he  gone  oftener  to  the  club,  but  for  the  most  part 
he  dwelt  in  a  little  world  colored  by  the  rays  of 
his  own  imagination.  He  was  very  young,  and 
had  much  to  learn.  In  the  club  he  found  a  letter. 
He  recognized  the  clear,  strong  handwriting,  and, 
lighting  a  cigar,  he  retired  to  a  quiet  corner  to 

read. 

15 


1 6  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

k<  I  suppose  you  will  be  not  in  the  least  aston 
ished,"  said  the  writer,  "  to  learn  that  I  am  going 
to  be  married,  and  to  Leander  Barrett.  I  am  just 
a  little  astonished  myself,  for  I  hardly  know  how 
it  arrived.  It  finished  itself  so  suddenly  that  I 
have  not  yet  caught  my  breath.  You  see,  I  knew 
Leander  slightly  when  he  was  in  college.  He  was 
a  great  friend  of  my  cousin,  Billy  Montgomery 
— you  know  him — and  it  was  through  this  that  I 
met  him.  Of  course,  at  that  time  I  did  not  dream 
that  he  had  so  much  in  him.  He  seemed  to  me 
to  be  just  an  ordinary  college  boy,  and  I  enjoyed 
his  chaff  and  chatter,  and  passed  him  on  just  as 
women  always  pass  on  nice  boys.  But  when  I  be 
gan  to  read  of  his  achievements  abroad  in  such 
a  wide  variety  of  art  works,  I  saw  that  I  had  failed 
to  measure  his  character  at  all.  Strangely  enough, 
when  he  came  back  to  this  country  and  began  to 
sing  at  the  opera,  I  did  not  meet  him.  He  seemed 
to  have  drifted  into  a  totally  new  set.  I  suppose 
that  the  exclusively  musical  set  lives  quite  by  itself. 
At  any  rate,  no  one  in  the  set  in  which  I  have 
passed  my  life  seems  to  know  anything  or  care 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  17 

anything  about  music.  It  is  all  literature,  art,  and 
architecture.  You  must  know  all  about  Ghirlan- 
dajo  and  Giotto  and  Bramante  and  Petrarch  and 
ever  so  many  others  whom  I  need  not  mention 
to  you,  but  if  you  speak  of  Josquin  des  Pres  or 
Claudio  Monteverde,  people  stare  at  you  and 
coldly  ask  who  they  were.  And  if  you  can  tell, 
you  are  thought  to  be  a  crank.  I  don't  know 
why  I  ever  became  interested  in  these  musical 
masters,  except  that  they  seemed  to  me  to  be  just 
as  much  a  demonstration  of  the  intellectual  life  of 
their  times  as  the  painters  and  the  authors. 

"  It  was  only  a  few  months  ago  that  I  fell  in 
with  Leander  again,  and  it  was  of  all  places  in  the 
world  in  a  department  store.  We  bumped 
violently  against  one  another  in  a  crowd,  and,  as 
he  turned  to  apologize,  he  recognized  me  and  ex 
claimed,  'Well,  Miss  Montgomery — isn't  it?' 
And,  of  course,  I  admitted  that  it  was.  He  asked 
me  if  I  remembered  him,  but  made  no  attempt  to 
tell  me  his  name.  He  seemed  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  I  knew  who  he  was  now.  Naturally 
he  supposed  that  I  was  a  music  lover.  So  we  went 


1 8  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

out  of  the  shop  together,  and  I  took  him  uptown 
in  my  car.  We  had  a  pleasant  talk,  and — that 
was  the  beginning  of  it.  Somehow  the  affair 
rushed  itself  along,  and  before  I  really  was  sure 
that  I  knew  him,  he  asked  me  the  great  question. 
I  am  telling  you  all  this,  Philip,  because  in  a  sort 
of  way  it  is  your  right  to  know  it.  You  have  been 
my  closest  friend,  and  I  believe  you  really  under 
stand  me.  So  if  I  say  frankly  to  you  that  I  ac 
cepted  Leander  without  much  consideration,  you 
will  comprehend  me  when  I  add  that  no  sooner 
had  I  done  it  than  I  realized  that  I  would  not 
have  it  undone  for  all  the  world.  Can  you  gather 
that?  I  believe  I'm  just  a  woman,  after  all. - 
Anyhow,  I  know  now  that  I  love  Leander,  and 
that  I  honor  him  above  all  men.  His  art  is  as 
much  a  religion  to  me  as  it  is  to  him.  It  is  good 
to  hear  him  talk  about  the  art  of  voice  production, 
Philip.  It  reminds  me  of  the  times  when  you 
have  talked  to  me  about  your  art,  only  now  I  am 
listening  with  new  ears  and  an  inspired  under 
standing.  I  wonder  if  women  who  are  beloved 
of  business  men  and  have  to  listen  to  them  talk- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  19 

ing  about  short  stock  and  breaks  in  the  market 
and  running  the  bears  to  cover  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  can  listen  with  inspired  understandings. 

"  Oh,  I  am  blessed,  Philip,  to  be  the  chosen  of  a 
great  artist,  a  master  who  has  wonderful  mes 
sages  of  beauty  to  give  to  the  world.  But  you 
don't  want  to  hear  that,  do  you?  I  am  sure  you 
have  suspected  that  this  was  coming,  but  I  was  not 
sure  of  it  myself.  You  are  the  first  person  outside 
of  the  family  to  whom  I  have  given  the  news. 
The  engagement  will  not  be  announced  till  Mon 
day.  We  are  to  be  married  in  three  weeks,  for  Le- 
ander,  as  you  know,  does  not  remain  till  the  end 
of  the  season.  We  sail  right  after  the  ceremony, 
and  he  is  not  going  to  sing  at  all  in  the  summer. 
We  are  going  to  have  a  real  honeymoon,  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lee  Barrett,  in  out-of-the-way  places. 
He  was  not  willing  to  wait  till  he  came  back  for 
the  next  season,  and  we  both  felt  that  we  did  not 
wish  to  be  separated  for  all  those  months.  I  dare 
say  some  people  will  regard  it  as  a  hasty  wedding, 
but  we  who  live  in  a  world  far  above  that  known 
by  the  ludicrous  *  society  people '  will  not  he 


20  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

troubled.  So  I  shall  go  to  Europe  with  him  and 
come  back  with  him  when  he  returns  for  next  sea 
son.  Meanwhile,  Philip,  I  have  told  him  that  you 
are  my  best  friend,  and  that  he  must  not  object. 
Do  you  know,  he  smiled  and  seemed  greatly 
pleased  to  know  that  we  were  such  friends,  and 
when  I  told  him  that  I  should  like  to  write  to  you 
from  Europe,  he  said,  *  By  all  means,  you  must  not 
let  such  a  friendship  as  that  fall  away.'  Wasn't  it 
dear  of  him,  Phil?" 

And  Phil  thought  it  was. 

The  spreading  of  the  great  news  was  rapid.  In 
the  evening  of  the  same  day  it  rushed  with  electric 
speed  through  the  atmosphere  of  a  queer  little 
Italian  restaurant,  whither  some  of  the  divine 
singers  of  the  opera  company  went  to  eat  their 
dinners.  An  opera  company  is  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  of  human  institutions.  It  is  a  pushing, 
eager,  suspicious  community,  in  which  the  largest 
of  human  passions  and  the  meanest  of  human  jeal 
ousies  jostle  and  elbow  one  another  at  all  hours 
and  in  all  circumstances.  There  are  castes,  and 
there  are  iron  gates  through  which  the  lower  may 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  21 

not  pass  to  the  higher.  Away  up  in  the  blinding 
glare  of  that  sun  of  publicity,  which  rises  with  the 
morning  paper  and  sets  only  with  the  last  edition 
of  the  evening,  dwell  the  royalties  of  the  opera 
realm,  those  mighty  princesses  and  princes  whose 
number  of  appearances  are  guaranteed  for  the  sea 
son,  and  who  do  not  receive  salaries,  but  "  cachets," 
often  rising  to  the  proud  proportions  of  four  fig 
ures.  These  masters  do  not  dine  in  little  Italian 
restaurants.  The  most  palatial  hotels  provide 
them  with  gorgeous  apartments,  armies  of  lackeys, 
and  food  with  French  titles.  Some  of  them  even 
set  up  private  domiciles  for  the  season,  and  dis 
play  at  least  the  outward  semblance  of  a  social 
dignity  equal  to  that  of  their  employers. 

Little  Italian  restaurants  are  for  singers  who 
accept  salaries,  who  humbly  take  so  much  a  month 
and  sing  as  often  as  the  merciless  impresario 
wishes.  And  there  are  other  lines  of  distinction, 
moral  rather  than  financial,  among  the  citizens  of 
opera  land.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  company 
of  uninteresting  women.  Some  of  them  have  hus 
bands  whom  they  love  and  do  not  divorce.  The*se 


22  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

women  bear  children  and  rear  them  with  tender 
ness  and  intelligence.  Also  among  the  uninter 
esting  women  are  those  honest  and  ambitious  be 
ginners,  who  foolishly  worship  before  the  altar 
of  the  chaste  Diana,  refusing  the  helping 
masculine  hands  readily  proffered  to  them  at  so 
small  a  cost  as  a  transfer  of  their  devotion  to  a 
different  goddess.  These  vestals  remain  in  the 
gloom  of  minor  roles  and  wearily  wend  their  ways, 
through  season  after  season  with  painfully  slow 
progress  toward  the  glories  of  the  realm.  None 
of  these  women  can  appear  in  this  chronicle.  They 
do  not  fashion  history  of  this  kind.  Sometimes 
they  create  history  of  another  kind,  important  and 
even  epoch-making  in  the  realm  of  art,  but 
of  no  value  as  material  for  the  professional 
gossip. 

As  for  those  women  who  figure  in  all  animated 
chronicles  of  the  present  kind,  some  of  them  may 
have  had  husbands,  but  they  have  tried  to  forget 
them,  and  usually  with  success.  Little  Italian 
restaurants,  with  hot  and  opaque  atmospheres,  are 
in  accord  with  their  temperaments,  for  their  part 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  23 

of  the  opera  world  is  hot  and  opaque  at  all  sea 
sons  of  the  year. 

It  was  not  a  pretty  place,  that  particular  Italian 
restaurant.  All  the  men  in  it  seemed  to  require 
cigarette  smoke  as  a  condiment  for  food,  and 
they  chewed  and  puffed  alternately.  The  room 
was  filled  with  a  wreathing  blue  fog,  through 
which  strange  head-dresses  and  still  stranger 
gowns  could  be  seen,  for  the  denizens  of  this  world 
always  garb  themselves  in  streamers  of  splendor 
and  look  not  unlike  perambulating  lamp  shades. 

They  were  not  only  singers.  Some  were  im 
pecunious  painters  and  some  were  patrons  of  the 
arts,  who  were  wont  to  shout  "  bravo  "  from  the 
highest  seats  in  the  temple.  It  gave  them  a  fine 
satisfaction  to  eat  within  reach  of  real  singers. 
And  they  were  not  all  Italians,  for  one  feast  of 
spaghetti  makes  the  whole  world  of  Bohemia  kin. 
And  some  of  the  opera  singers  had  their  own  no 
tions  about  what  was  going  on  in  the  life  of  the 
great  tenor  who  ate  his  meals  in  gilded  palaces. 
They  had  no  official  information,  but  the  gossip 
mill  of  an  opera  house  grinds  exceeding  small. 


24  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"Who  is  it,  this  Montgomery?"  asked  Fera- 
mordi,  the  Italian  contralto,  as  she  drank  down 
Chianti  in  great  noisy  gulps.  On  the  stage  she 
was  majestic  in  stride  and  tragic  in  tone,  this  Fera- 
mordi,  but  she  did  not  eat  prettily  at  all.  She  had 
never  rid  herself  of  the  ghost  of  her  hungry  days 
in  the  Santa  Lucia  quarter  before  her  voice  was 
discovered. 

"A  society  woman,  is  she  not?"  said  Tre- 
montini,  the  light  barytone,  who  was  sure  he  could 
sing  Amonasro,  while  every  one  else  was  sure  he 
could  not. 

"  No,"  replied  Abadista,  the  general  utility 
barytone,  "  I  know.  I  always  know.  Her  father 
is  a  carpet  maker." 

"  Well,"  said  Feramordi,  "  and  in  this  country 
she  can  be  in  what  they  call  their  best  society,  these 
beasts  of  Americans — they  have  no  aristocracy, 
the  shop-keeping,  stock-selling  pigs." 

They  were  all  speaking  Italian,  of  course,  but 
Tremontini  looked  fearfully  around  and  said  in  a 
whisper: 

"  Careful,  careful,  my  dear;  some  dog  will  be 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  25 

carrying  your  words  to  one  of  the  stockholders, 
and  you  may  fall  upon  evil  days." 

'  What  do  I  care?  "  she  said,  affecting  a  cour 
age  which  she  did  not  feel.  "  I  am  the  Feramordi, 
am  I  not?  I  have  all  Europe  and  South  America 
in  which  to  sing,  have  I  not?  " 

'  Yes,  yes,  yes,  a  thousand  and  one  times  yes, 
my  darling;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  go  to  South 
America." 

'  Then  go  to  Tophet,"  she  exclaimed,  hurling 
an  evil  look  into  his  eyes;  "I  can  live  without 
you." 

They  were  not  man  and  wife,  either,  these  two, 
and  surely  never  would  be.  Their  quarrels  en 
livened  the  life  of  the  opera  house,  and  always 
ended  in  the  same  way.  They  invariably  went 
home  together  after  a  performance.  Habit  was 
their  master.  They  leaned  upon  one  another  in- 

6 

stinctively. 

"  But  yet,"  continued  Abadista,  who  at  last  got 
another  opportunity  to  speak,  "  she  is  not  of  this 
American  shop-keeping  and  stock-swindling  aris 
tocracy.  She  is  of  the  outside.  She  has  much 


26  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

money,  but  she  does  not  dine  and  dance  with  any 
of  those  who  applaud  us  from  the  boxes.  She  is 
unknown  among  them." 

"Does  she  attempt  music ?"  asked  Tremon- 
tini. 

"  Alas,  I  do  not  know  that,"  replied  the  utility 
man. 

"  Via  via!"  exclaimed  Feramordi;  "what  dif 
ference  does  it  make?  If  she  is  an  amateur  musi 
cian,  they  will  fight  because  she  will  know  a  little. 
If  she  is  not,  they  will  also  fight,  because  she  will 
be  a  fool  and  will  know  nothing." 

For  a  few  minutes  the  three  said  nothing 
further.  Their  busy  mouths  were  occupied  with 
spaghetti.  From  the  next  table  floated  scraps  of 
conversation.  Those  who  sat  there  were  French 
and  Polish  members  of  the  company.  They  were 
not  on  bad  terms  with  the  Italians,  but  they  knew 
that  Feramordi  and  Tremontini  bullyragged  each 
other  all  through  meals,  and  they  were  wiser 
than  Abadista,  who  was  just  stupid  enough  to 
intrude  upon  the  ferocious  lovemaking  of  the  bary 
tone  and  contralto.  One  could  not  help  hear- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  27 

ing,  however,  a  few  words  of  the  French  chatter, 
which  was  also  about  the  gossip  of  the  day. 

"  And  why,"  demanded  Madeleine  Piroux,  the 
exquisite  little  French  soprano,  "  shall  I  not  ask 
Leandro  who  and  what  his  chere  amie  is?  " 

"  Because,  most  adorable  of  women,"  replied 
Ponitzky,  the  Polish  bass,  "  you  are  just  a  little 
epris  of  the  Baroni  yourself." 

"  Don't  be  jealous,  Ladislas,"  she  said,  throw 
ing  a  piece  of  bread  at  his  mustache;  "  you  know 
that  I  love  only  you — to-day." 

"  And  whom  to-morrow?  " 

'To-morrow?  Oh,  what  can  one  tell  of  to 
morrow?  It  is  always — to-morrow." 

"  But,  nevertheless,  you  will  not  ask  him  to-mor 
row  or  the  next  day." 

"  Eheu !  I  suppose  he  would  smile  so  enchant- 
ingly  and  show  his  beautiful  teeth  and  begin  to 
talk  about  our  joint  appearance  in  Philadelph — 
sacre  nom !  how  can  one  say  the  word !  " 

And  the  sum  and  substance  of  it  all  was  that 
the  members  of  the  opera  company  had  just  got 
wind  of  the  affair,  and  they  really  knew  little 


28  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

enough.  They  had  learned  that  Baroni  was  in 
love  with  a  Miss  Montgomery,  but  who  she  was 
they  could  not  tell.  Nor  did  they  know  that  there 
was  to  be  a  wedding  so  soon  or,  indeed,  that  there 
was  to  be  one  at  all,  for  being  in  love  did  not  in 
the  operatic  half-world  necessarily  imply  a  wed 
ding.  But  on  one  point  they  were  all  perfectly 
agreed,  and  that  was  that  if  there  was  a  wedding, 
the  woman  was  a  fool.  For  they  were  morally 
certain  that  no  woman  not  brought  up  in  their 
sphere  could  dwell  peaceably  with  one  of  its  deni 
zens.  They  were  not  at  all  given  to  self-study, 
these  sublime  egoists  of  the  world  of  music.  They 
never  thought  about  themselves  in  that  way.  They 
regarded  themselves  as  arrived,  as  complete,  as 
finished  products  of  the  wisdom  of  nature.  But 
they  were  satisfied  that  the  rest  of  humanity  dwelt 
on  a  level  far  below  theirs,  and  that  only  the 
sublime  people  of  their  own  planet  could  under 
stand  them.  So  there  was  no  reason  why  every 
one  should  not  say  that  the  woman  was  a  fool. 
Oh,  it  would,  perhaps,  be  beautiful  for  a  few 
weeks,  but  what  would  she  do  if  Baroni  should 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  29 

have  one  of  his  grand  attacks  of  the  ego?  To  be 
sure,  they  had  another  name  for  it,  but  that  was 
what  it  was.  Had  he  not  nearly  bitten  off  the 
ear  of  Tremontini  one  night  in  "  Cavalleria  "  just 
because  that  honest  and  prosaic  barytone  had  got 
six  recalls  after  the  duo  with  Nagy  Bosanska,  the 
Santuzza  of  the  evening?  And,  perhaps,  he  was 
enraged  also  at  the  Bosanska,  but  men  did  not 
show  anger  at  her.  If  they  did,  she  just  looked 
deep  into  their  eyes  and  they  forgot.  Bosanska 
was  much  more  to  be  feared  than  Baroni's  ego, 
for  he  was  only  an  American,  while  she  was  a 
mystery. 

Some  said  that  she  was  a  Calabrian  whose  father 
had  slain  her  mother  because  he  was  not  her 
father.  But  others  declared  that  she  was  nothing 
so  cheaply  melodramatic  as  a  Calabrian.  Some 
held  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  Moscow  Jew 
by  a  Tartar  mother.  Others  declared  that  she 
was  the  child  of  an  Austrian  nobleman  and  a  Dal 
matian  peasant  woman.  None  of  them  really 
knew,  for  Nagy  Bosanska  was  still  a  mystery. 
And  since  they  were  all  a  little  afraid  of  her,  they 


30  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

asked  her  no  questions.  Men  had  asked  Nagy 
questions  away  back  in  the  past,  and  had  got  looks 
for  answers,  and  for  the  sake  of  those  looks  they 
had  sunk  into  hell.  It  was  the  best  and  the  worst 
of  all  things  to  love  Nagy  Bosanska,  as  some  men 
in  different  parts  of  the  world  could  tell.  But  the 
one  who  could  tell  best  of  all  was  silent  forever, 
for  he  was  the  Hungarian  gipsy  who  had  shot 
himself  on  a  mountainside  above  Csorba,  when  a 
certain  Viennese  nobleman  had  discovered  the  Bo- 
sanska's  voice  and  taken  her  away  to  the  capital 
to  study — under  his  protection. 

And  Nagy  Bosanska,  sitting  in  the  retirement 
of  her  apartment  in  Madison  Avenue,  and  dining 
in  peace,  accompanied  by  her  ancient  and  subservi 
ent  companion,  smiled  as  if  her  thoughts  were  most 
amusing. 

"  Why  do  you  smile,  Doushka?"  asked  Mme. 
Melanie,  the  companion. 

"Don't  talk  Russian,"  said  Nagy  fiercely; 
"  you  know  I  hate  it." 

"  Holy  saints!  "  said  poor  Melanie  to  herself, 
"  I  forgot  that  it  was  the  favorite  pet  name  of  that 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  31 

Viennese  devil.  What  a  pity  she  does  not  find  a 
lover  who  will  also  be  a  master.  The  Viennese 
terrorized  her.  All  other  men  have  been  her 
slaves."  Then  she  said  aloud:  "  Forgive  me,  dear 
one.  I  am  an  old  fool." 

"  But  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Nagy  Bosanska  with 
an  inscrutable  look  in  her  gray-green  eyes;  "  I 
smile  because  a  tenor  is  in  love  with  a  doll 
baby." 

Which  shows  that  Nagy  Bosanska  knew  nothing 
at  all  about  the  matter.  And  in  this  she  was 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  rest  of  the  opera 
company.  For  Leander  Barrett,  despite  his  con 
siderable  experience  in  the  opera  realms,  was  yet 
an  American,  and  he  had  a  way  of  keeping  his  af 
fairs  to  himself.  If  he  had  told  any  one,  however, 
it  certainly  would  not  have  been  Nagy  Bosanska, 
for  he  regarded  her  with  a  supreme  indifference. 
He  liked  to  sing  with  her  because  she  was 
tremendous;  but  off  the  stage  he  preferred 
the  American  members  of  the  company,  who 
were  all  cordially  hated  by  the  European 
members. 


32  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Nevertheless,  Mme.  Melanie  observed  later 
that  the  serpent  was  unusually  alive  this  day  in 
the  green  eyes  of  Nagy,  and  she  was  very  glad 
that  she  was  neither  the  tenor  nor  his  bride-to-be. 


CHAPTER  III 

"1XJAGY  BOSANSKA'  wil1  y°u  sin£ at  m^ 

-^  ^      wedding?  "  whispered  Leandro  Baroni. 

'  Yes,"  she  answered  in  something  like  a  hiss, 
"  and  dance  at  your  funeral." 

"  You  are  most  obliging,"  said  Leandro. 

"  And  you  are  merely  stupid,"  commented 
Nagy. 

At  the  moment  they  were  walking  hand  in 
hand  toward  the  cathedral  in  the  second  act  of 
"  Lohengrin,"  and  the  audience  was  intent  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  thrill  of  it  all  had 
penetrated  the  house,  and  there  were  many  who 
would  have  sworn  that  these  two  great  artists  had 
so  identified  themselves  with  their  roles  that  they 
really  lived  the  lives  of  Lohengrin  and  Elsa.  As 
the  orchestra  thundered  the  brazen  echo  of  "  Nie 
sollst  du  mich  befragen,"  and  Ortrud  stood  threat 
ening  below  the  steps,  Baroni  and  Bonsanska,  who 
could  play  charmingly  on  the  surface  of  Wagner's 

33 


34  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

music,  passed  slowly  from  the  sight  of  the  audi 
ence.     And  he  was  saying  to  her: 

"What  will  you  sing?" 

"  I  will  sing,"  she  answered,  "  *  Mon  coeur 
s'ouvre  a  ta  voix.' ' 

And  as  she  slipped  from  his  encircling  arm  and 
started  toward  the  front  to  take  her  curtain  call, 
she  smiled  at  him  an  inscrutable  and  disconcerting 
smile. 

u  It  is  a  contralto  number,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  but  that  creature  can  sing  anything  with  her  two 
octaves  and  a  half.  I  wonder  if  Helen  will  think 
it  has  any  personal  meaning  directed  at  her." 

By  this  time  he  was  bowing  gracefully  over  the 
Bosanska's  hand  in  front  of  the  curtain,  while  the 
audience  applauded  and  the  standees  shouted 
"  bravi."  As  the  two  passed  out  of  the  public 
sight,  he  said: 

"  Nagy  Bosanska,  you  shall  not  sing  the  song  of 
Dalila  at  my  wedding." 

"  No?     Then  I  sing  nothing." 
And  so  it  came  about  that  little  Madeleine  Piroux 
and  Tremontini  were  the  singers  who  did  the  duty 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  35 

of  artistic  fellowship  at  the  wedding  two  days 
after  the  "  Lohengrin  "  performance.  Leandro 
made  his  farewell  appearance  for  the  season  as 
the  Swan  Knight,  and  went  home  to  see  his 
luggage  made  ready  for  Europe. 

The  wedding-day  was  not  altogether  a  success, 
for  it  was  soft  and  foggy,  and  all  the  opera  people 
were  in  evil  humor.  Even  Leandro  was  surly 
when  he  arose  and  tramped  ill-temperedly  about 
the  room,  sounding  his  middle  C  and  shaking  his 
head  because  it  was  veiled.  But  presently  he 
smiled  a  little. 

"  It  is  not  I  who  must  sing  to-day.  I  have  only 
to  marry,"  he  thought.  "  And  then  away,  far 
away  from  everything  but  love  for  months  to 


come." 


A  knock  at  the  door  startled  him.     It  was  only 

his  valet.     The  wedding  was  set  for  an  early  hour, 

> 
so  that  the  happy  couple  might  take  the  steamer 

immediately  after  the  ceremony.  Helen  had 
vainly  pleaded  for  a  quiet  wedding  entirely  in  pri 
vate,  but  Leander  had  assured  her  that  his  posi 
tion  as  a  public  man  demanded  certain  sacrifices. 


3 6  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

It  must  be  in  a  church;  some  of  the  company  must 
sing;  their  pictures  must  appear  in  the  next  day's 
newspapers,  and  the  reporters  must  be  furnished 
with  full  particulars. 

u  It  is  only  for  this  once,"  said  Leander;  "  when 
we  come  back,  it  will  all  be  an  old  story,  and  I 
shall  no  longer  be  a  subject  for  romantic  reports. 
I  shall  be  an  old  married  tenor." 

And  Helen  sighed  her  resignation.  After  all, 
they  would  not  see  the  newspapers,  for  they  would 
be  far  out  on  the  ocean,  and  then  for  months 
they  would  be  buried  in  out-of-the-way  places  in 
Europe.  Leander  knew  so  many  little  nooks  and 
corners,  where  tourists  never  went,  and  there  they 
two  would  go  and  forget  the  rest  of  the  world. 
So  she  faced  the  church  wedding  and  the  photog 
raphers  at  the  door  with  calm  courage. 

In  her  wedding  garb  and  treading  the  path 
toward  the  altar  she  was,  perhaps,  not  quite  the 
Helen  Montgomery  of  every-day  life;  but  still, 
even  the  operatic  guests  confessed  that  she  was 
good  to  see.  She  was  not  a  very  tall  woman,  but 
the  noble  lines  of  her  figure  gave  her  an  appearance 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  37 

of  height,  and  her  walk,  which  was  the  incarnation 
of  feminine  dignity,  added  to  the  illusion.  From 
somewhere  in  the  far  back  generations  of  her  peo 
ple  she  had  got  a  dainty  fineness  of  bone  and  a 
satin  sheen  of  creamy  skin.  The  crimson  in  her 
cheeks  was  usually  that  of  the  rose,  though  now 
she  was  unwontedly  pale.  But  the  sweet  pro 
fundity  of  her  steady,  but  soft,  gray-brown  eyes 
was  unruffled.  She  breathed  an  atmosphere  of 
perfectly  poised,  aristocratic,  intellectual  woman 
hood.  But  it  was  no  chilled  atmosphere,  for 
Helen  was  adorably  human  and  desirable.  There 
was  a  tempting  fullness  of  the  lips,  a  gracious 
roundness  of  the  bosom,  and  a  deepness  in  the 
strong  respiration  which  bespoke  the  existence  of  a 
slumbering  passion  ready  to  be  awakened  to  a 
splendid  life. 

As  she  moved  bravely  forward,  she  was  happily 
unconscious  of  the  strange  and  motley  crowd  in 
the  little  church.  All  that  she  saw  was  the  re 
lentless  perspective  of  the  narrow  aisle  terminating 
in  the  dimly  lighted  altar  before  which  she  was  to 
kneel,  while  the  crown  of  life  was  laid  upon  her 


3 8  THE  SOUL  OF  A  .TENOR 

brow.  Her  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  it,  and  she 
moved  unfalteringly  toward  it  as  one  in  a  vision. 
She  did  not  even  see  Leander,  standing  there  in 
all  the  splendor  of  his  six  feet  of  straight,  slim 
manhood,  waiting  for  her  to  deliver  her  future  into 
his  hands.  She  did  not  hear  the  opera-house 
orchestra  and  the  church  organ  thundering  the 
"  Coronation  March  "  from  the  "  Prophet  " — Le 
ander  had  vowed  that  he  would  not  have  that 
deadly  "  Lohengrin  "  music.  She  saw  the  cross 
over  the  altar,  and  behind  it  a  blurred  picture  of 
a  drooping  figure  with  outspread  arms.  Her  soul 
was  floating  toward  celestial  regions.  Helen  was 
consecrating  herself  to  the  stupendous  conditions 
of  wifehood,  and  as  she  walked  forward  she 
silently  prayed  that  she  might  wear  worthily  her 
crown;  for  the  cross  behind  the  altar  did  not  seem 
to  be  for  her. 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  ceremony  the  sounds 
of  song  were  heard.  In  neither  instance  was  it 
the  song  which  Leander  had  chosen.  The 
wretches  treated  the  affair  as  if  it  were  a  Sunday- 
night  concert  and  changed  the  programme  at  will. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  39 

The  light,  transparent,  silver  tones  of  Madeleine 
Piroux  wafted  out  into  the  church  Alessandro 
Stradella's  "  Se  amor  m'annoda  il  piede,"  which 
caused  Leander  to  smile  faintly  and  with  a  certain 
indulgence.  Tremontini  sang  "  Sous  les  pieds 
d'une  femme,"  from  Gounod's  "  La  Reine  de 
Saba,"  and  the  drift  of  the  words  made  a  mo 
mentary  impression  even  upon  the  absorbed  spirit 
of  Helen,  so  that  she  lowered  her  head  and  blushed 
in  her  sweet  humility.  As  for  Leander,  he  com 
muned  briefly  with  himself: 

'  Tremontini  well  knows  that  he  will  not  meet 
me  again  till  next  season,  and  by  that  time  I  shall 
have  forgotten  that  I  ought  to  kick  him." 

When  the  ceremony  was  over  the  orchestra 
played  the  inevitable  Mendelssohn  wedding  march. 
Helen  was  Mrs.  Barrett  in  private  life,  and  Mme. 
Baroni  in  the  palpitating  world  of  art.  Her  life 
had  doubled  at  the  altar.  She  was  two  per 
sonages,  or,  rather,  one  person  and  one  personage. 
But  she  did  not  realize  it  then.  She  had  so  much 
to  learn,  and  she  was  so  sure  that  she  already 
knew.  So  she  had  also  much  to  unlearn. 


40  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

The  automobile  was  waiting  at  the  door.  Some 
of  the  singers  crowded  about  them  as  they  came 
out,  and  tried  to  embrace  either  the  bride  or  the 
bridegroom.  It  made  no  difference  to  them,  so 
long  as  they  could  give  an  emotional  performance 
in  the  presence  of  the  photographers  from  the 
evening  papers  lined  up  at  the  curb.  Press  agents 
ran  up  and  down  the  line  making  sure  that  the 
actors  in  this  historic  scene  were  correctly  identi 
fied.  Leander  and  Helen  hastened  into  the  car, 
and  the  chauffeur  gave  a  loud  toot.  In  A  flat, 
Tremontini  said  it  was,  for  he  claimed  to  pos 
sess  absolute  pitch,  but  he  often  sang  out  of  tune. 
The  vehicle  sped  away,  and  the  singers  turned  and 
hesitated,  for  they  found  themselves  mixed  with 
a  crowd  quite  new  to  them.  The  friends  of  Helen 
stared  at  these  strange  creatures,  and  said  to  one 
another: 

uHow  remarkable!" 

And  the  singers  stared  back  and  said  to  one  an 
other  : 

"  People  who  come  from  nowhere  and  go  back 
there." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  41 

They  had  small  esteem  for  those  whom  they 
did  not  recognize  as  opera-goers. 

"  Hein !  These  Americans  they  are  so  rich  and 
so  stupid,"  declared  Madeleine  Piroux,  who  had 
emerged  from  the  church. 

"  But  they  pay  the  money,"  remarked  Tremon- 
tini  philosophically. 

"  Bien !  That  is  what  Americans  are  for,"  de 
clared  Madeleine  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"Shall  we  go  to  their  luncheon?"  asked  Po- 
nitzky,  who  had  not  breakfasted. 

"  Idiot!  "  answered  Feramordi;  "  would  I  wish 
to  answer  their  ten  thousand  foolish  questions? 
You  will  take  me  to  Henri's  and  we  shall  hide  from 
every  one." 

"  Adorable  angel,"  murmured  Ponitzky,  who 
hated  Henri's. 

And  so  these  great  "  artists,"  to  whom  an  in- 

* 

scrutable  Providence  had  confided  the  interpreta 
tion  of  noble  dramatic  poems,  and  whose  pulsating 
interpretations  nightly  set  thousands  of  souls 
a-tremble,  went  their  several  ways,  and  the  wor 
shiping  public  continued  to  worship  from  the 


42  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

other  side  of  that  yawning  gulf,  the  orchestra 
pit. 

Helen  and  Leander  tarried  not  long  at  the 
luncheon.  Their  steamer  was  to  sail  at  three. 
They  had  yet  to  make  some  minor  changes  in 
their  garb.  At  half-past  one,  while  the  hungry 
ones  were  still  at  the  tables,  they  slipped  away. 
Only  Helen's  father  bade  them  adieu.  The  car 
went  noiselessly  down  the  street,  and  so  Helen 
passed  out  of  her  old  world  and  faced  her  new 
one.  She  sat  back  with  her  eyes  half  closed,  try 
ing  to  gather  her  forces,  for,  although  she  was  not 
of  the  hysterical  type,  and  though  a  wedding  was 
not  a  social  ceremony  to  her,  she  had  passed 
through  an  excitement  which  puzzled  her,  because 
it  was  of  a  new  order.  She  faced  the  mental  situ 
ation  as  she  rode  toward  the  steamer.  It  cleared 
itself  quickly,  for  her  will  was  strong. 

She  saw  herself  touched  by  the  consciousness 
that  she  was  the  bride  of  an  artist.  She  smiled 
slowly  as  she  measured  that.  After  all,  an  artist 
was  first  a  man,  and  a  man  was  a  human  being, 
like  herself.  Suppose  she  had  been  marrying  an 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  43 

architect,  would  she  have  had  that  same  sense  of 
being  translated  into  a  foreign  sphere?  She 
thought  not.  Suppose  her  husband  were  a 
financier,  or  even  a  politician  with  huge  visions 
of  power.  Would  she  have  had  the  same  feel 
ing?  She  knew  she  would  not.  Then,  where  ran 
the  imperceptible  line  which  separated  the  architect 
from  the  singer?  Was  Palestrina  made  of  a  dif 
ferent  clay  from  Bramante?  Ideals,  yes,  there 
was  the  difference.  But  each  had  them.  They 
differed  merely  in  their  investiture.  Leander  was 
hardly  a  Palestrina,  but  he  was  a  king  among 
singers.  Palestrina  was  the  Prince  of  music. 
Surely  Leander's  pure  and  chaste  ideals  might 
fairly  be  classed  with  those  of  the  great  son  of 
Sante,  but  there  was  nothing  into  which  she  could 
not  enter.  And  in  all  else  he  was  only  a  man,  like 
a  stockbroker  or  a  carpet  manufacturer.  And 
she  understood  dear  old  Papa  better  than  he  under 
stood  himself. 

So,  presently,  she  looked  up  with  a  brave  show 
of  confidence,  and  found  Leander  looking  down 
into  her  eyes  with  such  a  genuine  tenderness  that 


44  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

she  was  profoundly  moved  by  it.  A  sudden  wave 
of  faith  and  comfort  rushed  over  her,  and  left 
her  with  a  deep  peace  in  her  soul.  She  lifted  her 
face  instinctively,  and  Leander,  leaning  down, 
murmured : 

"  My  wife." 

And  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips — a  long,  gentle 
clinging  kiss,  that  had  no  touch  of  passion,  but 
rather  was  an  act  of  consecration.  It  was  at  that 
moment,  though  he  never  knew  it,  that  his  love 
reached  its  zenith. 

"  Lee,"  she  said,  "  it  seemed  a  little  strange  to 
me  for  a  moment;  but  now  I  am  happy." 

;'  What  seemed  strange,  dear?  " 

u  I  felt  as  if  I  had  strayed  out  of  my  own  world 
into  one  unknown  to  me." 

'*  Well,  in  a  sense  that  is  true.  But  I  fancy  your 
feeling  that  way  was  due  to  your  becoming  the 
wife  of  a  sort  of  public  man,  you  know  what  I 
mean — stepping  out  into  the  glare  of  the 
footlights.  You  see,  you'll  have  to  face  my 
glory." 

He  smiled  and  spoke  lightly,  but  the  words 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  45 

jarred  upon  her.  She  was  not  thinking  of  his 
fame,  but  of  his  inner  world.  After  all,  though, 
she  could  not  expect  to  knock  at  its  door  and  hear 
him  say,  "  Come  in/'  and  thus  complete  every 
thing.  No,  she  would  have  to  invade  this  won 
derful  new  territory  slowly. 

"  I  was  thinking  rather  of  your  ideal  world," 
she  said  softly. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  said  pensively;  "  but  you'll  get 
used  to  that.  It  really  is  not  hard." 

And  again  she  wondered  if  she  had  not  stupidly 
failed  to  make  herself  understood.  She  was  silent 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  car  rolled  up  to 
the  pier.  As  it  did  so,  he  turned  his  eyes  full 
upon  hers  and  said: 

"  Look  here,  sweetheart,  we  are  going  away  on 
a  vacation;  I  don't  want  to  talk  shop." 

"  Shop?  "she  echoed. 

"  Yes,  art  and  singing  and  opera  and  all  tfiat 
sort  of  thing.  That's  my  trade,  you  know,  and  in 
vacation  I  like  to  forget  it  for  a  time.  And  this 
is  going  to  be  the  greatest  vacation  of  my  whole 
life.  We  are  going  away,  you  and  I,  into  secret 


46  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

corners,  and  we  aren't  going  to  think  of  anything 
in  the  world  except  our  love." 

And  as  they  went  on  board  the  ship  she  was  still 
wondering  how  he  intended  to  separate  their  love 
from  a  partnership  in  the  thing  that  made  his  in 
tellectual  life.  But,  after  all,  what  he  doubtless 
meant  was  that  they  should  not  purposely  enter 
into  discussions  of  musical  subjects.  Of  course, 
enlightening  remarks  would  fall  from  his  lips 
from  time  to  time,  and  she  would  gradually  acquire 
a  deeper  and  surer  knowledge  of  his  ideals.  And 
then,  in  the  season  they  would  be  absorbed  in  these 
beautiful  thoughts,  for  he  would  be  living  in  the 
world  of  the  imagination. 

And  because  they  had  exacted  a  promise  that  no 
one  should  come  to  see  them  off,  they  stood  com 
fortably  in  a  corner  of  the  deck  and  watched  the 
big  pier  recede.  When  the  ship  had  pointed  her 
bows  at  the  Narrows,  Helen  resolutely  turned  her 
back  on  New  York,  and,  leaning  on  her  husband's 
arm,  gazed  at  the  blue  rim  beyond  Fort  Hamilton. 
Somewhere  behind  that  she  would  really  begin  her 
new  life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"VTES,"  said  Helen;    "  but  it  seems  a  pity  to 

-*•      leave  this  paradise  of  rest." 

Leander  twirled  the  sun  umbrella  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  Paquier.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  automobiles,  laden  with  foolish 
American  tourists  from  Aix,  were  speeding  along 
the  level  road  and  sending  clouds  of  dust  into  the 
dignified  face  of  the  solemn  Prefecture  building. 
Children  were  beginning  to  gather  in  the  cool 
shadows  under  the  wide-spreading  trees,  and  far 
across  the  lake  the  first  faint  touches  of  purple 
were  stealing  into  the  thousand  hollows  of  the 
majestic  Tournette.  The  bugles  were  sounding 
the  retreat,  and  some  two  score  baggy-kneed  in 
fantrymen  of  the  gallant  Fifty-fifth  Brigade  w'ere 
forming  in  line  behind  the  Casino  to  march  back 
to  their  barracks  after  an  hour  of  field  exercise  in 
the  hot  sun. 

The  lake,  a  marvelous  well  of  undefiled  green, 

47 


48  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

was  shining  like  a  moon,  and  the  splendid  Savoy 
mountains  looked  paternally  down  upon  it  and 
sheltered  it  and  shut  out  the  silly  world  from  it. 
The  mountains,  modest  after  Jungfraus  and  Mat- 
terhorns,  and  therefore  not  advertised  to  travel 
ers,  sang  silent  songs  against  the  lambent  sky,  and 
the  rain,  which  so  often  drifts  across  them  in  the 
wet  season,  lingered  far  away,  leaving  the  mighty 
shoulder  of  the  Parmelan  standing  forth  clear  and 
strong  like  a  buttress  of  the  world.  Helen  sighed, 
and  quoted: 

"  'But  list;  a  voice  is  near; 

Great  Pan  himself,  low  whispering  through  the  reeds, 
Be  thankful  thoti:  for  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here.' ': 

Leander  smiled  with  an  expression  of  indulgence 
in  his  luminous  eyes,  and  quoted  in  his  turn : 

11  'Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es  bedeuten, 
Dass  ich  so  traurig  bin.' ' 

"  But  that,"  declared  Helen,  "  is  a  song  of  a 


river." 


'Quanti  volt  al  ciaar  de  luna 
Mi  t'ho  dit  de  vorett  ben.'  " 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  49 

Leander  sang  this  sotto  voce  and  Helen  made  a 
little  mouth  of  mutiny. 

"  And  that,"  she  said,  "  is  a  song  of  an  over 
rated  lake  where  Americans  tramp  in  one  another's 
footsteps  and  try  to  imagine  themselves  thrilling 
with  forbidden  passions  in  the  bosky  groves  of  the 
Villa  Serbeloni,  where  still  linger  the  perfumes  of 
many  roses  and  the  echoes  of  the  voice  of  the  beau 
tiful  Carrara." 

"  You  like  this  lake  better  than  Como  or  Garda, 
don't  you?  " 

Helen  rose  and  sighed. 

"  Nothing  is  better  than  this,  but  one  does  not 
make  comparisons  with  Garda.  Leave  Claude 
Melnotte's  pastel  picture  also  out  of  the  question." 

"  Well,"  said  Leander,  laughing,  "  you  are  a 
lady  of  lakes  anyhow,  and  to-morrow  you  must 
look  at  another,  Leman,  beloved  of  your  friend 
Byron." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  sorry  to  go,"  said  Helen  simply; 
"  we  have  been  happy  here  far  from  the  madding 
opera  houses,  and  now — must  we  really  go?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  know  it  is  all  settled.     I  could 


50  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

not  break  my  pledge  to  Lilli.  I  promised  her  two 
years  ago  that  whenever  she  called  upon  me  to  aid 
her  in  the  Mozart  festival  I  would  do  so.  She  has 
claimed  the  fulfilment  of  my  promise.  Of  course, 
I  could  send  word  that  I  was  indisposed — unable 
to  travel  or " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Helen;  "  you  must  not 
descend  to  any  of  the  petty  things.  We  shall  go. 
Perhaps  I  shall  like  Salzburg." 

And  so  the  following  day  they  left  the  shores 
of  the  lake  of  eternal  green,  and,  in  a  train  filled 
with  tourists  from  Aix,  rolled  into  Geneva  in 
time  to  make  a  comfortable  connection  for  Zurich. 
Thence  they  traveled  onward,  and  still  onward,  to 
Romanshorn  and  across  the  wayward  Bodensee 
into  sleepy  Lindau,  and  out  again  with  the  express 
to  sophisticated  Munich.  And  still  another  day 
they  whirled  eastward  till  the  salty  sides  of  the 
Austrian  Alps  rose  above  the  horizon  and  the 
train  boomed  into  Salzburg,  and  they  plunged  into 
the  turmoil  of  the  pompous  little  custom  house. 
A  few  minutes  later  they  walked  into  the  Hotel 
Europe,  and  out  of  a  chair  in  the  rotunda  elevated 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  51 

itself  the  majestic  figure  of  the  great  Lilli,  who 
maternally  kissed  Leander  on  the  brow  and  turned 
with  a  smile  to  Helen : 

uAnd  this  is  the  'heilige  Braut' ;  she  is  not  angry 
with  me  that  I  kiss  him,  for  see,  my  hair  is  growing 
white,  and  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  I  heard  him 
cry  when  he  was  a  baby." 

And  for  answer  Helen  put  up  her  sweet  young 
lips  for  a  kiss,  and,  having  got  it,  said  gently : 

"  I  have  never  heard  you  sing,  dear  Frau  Lilli, 
but  in  America  they  still  speak  of  you  with 
veneration,  and  I  am  glad  that  you  are  Leander's 
friend." 

'  Yes,"  said  the  great  woman  reflectively;  "  I 
am  his  friend.  I  hope  to  live  to  see  him  grow 
wise.  He  is  a  good  child,  but — a  child." 

Helen  made  no  answer,  for  she  did  not  pene 
trate  the  meaning  of  the  great  woman's  utterance. 
A  little  later,  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room, 
looking  out  toward  the  Hohen  Salzburg,  she  re 
called  the  uneasy  hours  of  their  honeymoon.  For 
they  had  lingered  by  lakes  and  mountains  without 
finding  that  perfect  peace  to  which  she  had  looked 


52  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

forward.  Leander  was  tender  and  affectionate, 
but  from  the  first  she  was  conscious  that  his 
thoughts  had  begun  to  wander.  Sometimes  he  un 
successfully  tried  to  suppress  a  sigh,  and  when  she 
asked  him  why  he  sighed,  he  denied  that  he  had 
done  so.  The  young  wife  was  troubled.  They 
sat  upon  the  shore  at  Stresa  and  watched  the  blue 
shadows  above  Pallanza.  They  saw  the  Alps 
across  the  Zeller  See  flame  in  the  splendor  of  a 
July  sunset.  They  had  seen  the  glories  of 
Grenoble  and  the  peace  of  Annecy.  But  always 
Leander's  mind  was  out  of  tune.  His  thought 
was  making  flights  of  its  own  to  some  other  world. 
He  had  not  sung  a  note  till  just  before  they 
started  for  Salzburg.  He  had  given  his  wonder 
ful  voice  a  real  rest.  Then,  as  they  walked 
through  the  galleries  of  the  Gorge  du  Fier,  Lean 
der  suddenly  sang  a  scale  of  an  octave  and  a  half, 
ending  with  a  clarion  B  flat,  and  as  the  echoes  of 
it  rang  among  the  rocks,  he  threw  back  his  head 
boyishly  and  laughed. 

"  I'll  bet  this  alley  never  heard  anything  like 
that  before." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  53 

And  presently  he  was  sure  of  it,  for  a  guide 
approached  him  and  said: 

"  Monsieur  has  a  good  voice  for  singing.  He 
should  go  to  Paris  and  study." 

Lilli's  letter  had  changed  Leander's  moods  en 
tirely.  It  was  only  then  that  Helen  began  to  un 
derstand.  The  moment  her  husband  knew  that  he 
was  about  to  return  to  the  public  gaze,  he  became 
buoyant  in  spirit,  and  his  affectionate  demonstra 
tions  toward  his  bride  were  more  spontaneous  and 
sincere.  Helen  sighed. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  it  is  use 
less  to  expect  an  operatic  artist  to  be  entirely  happy 
except  when  he  is  exercising  the  spell  of  his  art.  I 
foresee  that  a  part  of  my  business  as  a  wife  will  be 
to  grasp  this  situation.  Leander  is  a  man  with  a 
mission.  Nature  has  set  him  apart  from  others 
by  the  gift  of  a  voice  and  an  artist's  soul.  It  is 
for  me  to  help  that  soul  to  perform  its  office  in 
the  world.  If  I  am  to  be  the  help  that  is  meet 
for  him,  this  I  must  do." 

The  next  day  after  their  arrival  at  Salzburg 
there  was  a  rehearsal  of  "  Don  Giovanni."  Helen 


54  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

had  never  before  attended  a  rehearsal,  and  Lean- 
der  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to  remain  away,  but 
she  pleaded  to  be  present,  and  said  she  would  sit  in 
a  dark  corner  where  no  one  would  see  her,  and 
would  be  very  quiet.  Leander  dubiously  said  he 
would  ask  Lilli,  but  the  great  woman  promptly 
granted  permission,  and  smiled  graciously  when 
she  did  so.  Already  she  had  discerned  that  the 
sweet  young  bride  was  treading  wholly  unfamiliar 
paths,  and  perhaps  she  thought  that  the  sooner 
the  girl  learned  true  things  the  better  it  would  be 
for  her.  But  she  failed  to  count  upon  the  fact  that 
Helen  was  still  looking  at  the  world  of  art 
through  rose-colored  spectacles ;  and,  furthermore, 
that  a  rehearsal  at  Salzburg  was  not  quite  in  the 
common  order  of  things  operatic. 

It  was  all  so  strange  to  Helen.  It  almost  de 
stroyed  some  of  her  pet  illusions  to  see  Leander 
as  Don  Ottavio  walking  about  in  a  gray  suit  of 
New  York  clothes,  and  wearing  a  straw  hat,  while 
Lilli,  with  her  hat  off  and  her  noble  gray-crowned 
head  revealed  in  all  its  majesty,  looked  Donna 
Anna  in  spite  of  her  modern,  yet  nondescript, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  55 

walking-frock.  The  theater  was  gloomy  and  the 
atmosphere  half-chilled.  There  was  a  musty  odor 
with  a  singular  tang  of  moldy  glue  in  it.  Faint 
traces  of  gas  could  also  be  detected,  and  the  one 
weak  sunbeam  which  strayed  across  the  ceiling 
seemed  to  be  half-obliterated  by  circling  particles 
in  the  crowded  air. 

The  conductor  wore  a  broad  slouched  hat  and 
had  long  oily  hair.  He  beat  time  mechanically, 
and  seldom  spoke  to  his  men.  The  Zerlina,  a 
youthful  prima  donna,  lately  sprung  into  note  and 
highly  conscious  of  the  fact,  sat  at  one  side  of  the 
stage.  She  wore  an  enormous  hat  with  a  brilliant 
green  feather  drooping  over  her  shoulders,  and 
carried  a  small  dog  entirely  disguised  in  white 
wool.  Lilli  cast  a  Junoesque  eye  on  her,  and  the 
glance  seemed  to  bode  her  no  good.  The  bary 
tone,  who  was  impersonating  Don  Giovanni,  spent 
all  his  spare  time  bending  over  the  Zerlina.  Hefen 
smiled  at  this,  and  wove  her  own  little  romance, 
which  was  some  thousands  of  miles  from  the 
truth.  The  Donna  Elvira  was  a  German,  and  a 
devoted  adorer  of  Lilli.  They  called  one  another 


56  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

by  first  names,  but  Lilli  was  not  polite  when  she 
was  displeased  with  anything  which  Donna  Elvira 
did. 

They  all  sang  in  suppressed  tones.  They  were 
saving  their  voices  for  the  performance.  The 
Leporello,  a  gigantic  Pole  with  a  notable  girth, 
piped  and  whistled  the  "  Madamina  "  till  Lilli 
suddenly  cried,  "  Lieber  Gott,  das  ist  kein  Gesang. 
Singe,  singe!  " 

"  My  dear  Lilli,"  answered  the  Leporello  ur 
banely,  "  won't  you  be  good  enough  to  speak 
Italian?  I  know  this  part  in  four  languages,  and 
I  must  keep  to  one,  or  I  shall  become  confused." 

Whereupon  the  great  woman  launched  a  tempest 
of  Italian  at  him  and  he  shook  his  huge  head 
deprecatingly,  and  began  again.  This  time  he  let 
loose  the  mighty  volume  of  his  big  voice,  and  Lilli 
raged  once  more : 

"  Man,  man,  you  will  raise  the  dead  Com- 
mendatore  in  the  wrong  scene." 

For  always  it  was  Lilli  who  directed  the  re 
hearsal.  The  conductor  beat  time,  and  occasion 
ally  scolded  at  a  second  violin,  but  he  held  his 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  57 

peace  for  the  most  part,  except  once  when  he  made 
a  blunder  in  the  harpsichord  part,  which  he  played 
to  accompany  the  recitative  secco.  Lilli  then  be 
stowed  upon  him  several  uncomplimentary  titles, 
and  he  looked  up  mildly  and  said : 

"  Gnadige  Frau,  I  am  too  small  to  carry  so 
many  names." 

To  all  this  Helen  listened  with  some  wonder, 
for  she  had  expected  to  hear  learned  discussions 
about  the  correct  reading  of  Mozart's  great  num 
bers,  or  to  find  the  singers  going  over  phrases 
again  and  again  till  they  had  them  precisely  right. 
The  whole  rehearsal  seemed  to  her  to  be  pitched 
upon  a  low  level,  far  removed  from  the  regions  of 
artistic  ideals.  When  it  was  over,  she  and  Le- 
ander  went  for  a  drive  to  Hellbrunn,  where  they 
took  their  afternoon  coffee.  While  seated  at  the 
table,  Helen  expressed  her  feelings  to  Leander. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  "  we  do  not  have 
to  study  the  roles  now.  We  have  all  sung  them 
scores  of  times.  Lilli  must  have  done  Anna  a 
hundred  times.  All  that  we  have  to  do  is  bring 
things  together.  We  have  to  get  into  the  same 


58  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

picture,  you  know.  That  is  the  main  object  here. 
Now,  in  New  York,  we  don't  care  whether  we  are 
all  in  the  same  picture  or  not,  for  no  one  there 
knows  or  cares.  We  sing  every  man  and  woman 
for  himself.  The  public  has  been  trained  there 
to  go  to  hear  singers,  and  each  one  aims  at  mak 
ing  his  greatest  points  in  his  own  most  certain 
way.  But  here  we  must  give  (  Don  Giovanni '  in 
one  style  together,  and  that  is  what  the  great  Lilli 
is  after.  You  will  see,  it  will  all  come  out  beau 
tifully.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  have  to  bother. 
You  noticed  that  Lilli  hardly  spoke  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Helen.  "  She  seemed  content  to 
let  you  go  your  own  way." 

"  You  see,"  said  Leander  complacently,  "  Lilli 
knows  that  I  am  the  best  Don  Ottavio  in  Europe, 
and  that  my  arias  are  certain  to  set  the  audience 
wild." 

Helen  shrank  a  little  at  these  words,  but  in  a 
moment  she  remembered  that  Lilli  had  said  he  was 
still  only  a  child,  and  the  vanity  of  children  is  al 
ways  twin  sister  to  their  frankness. 

She  did  not  go  to  any  more  rehearsals.     She 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  59 

felt  that  in  the  future,  when  Leander  was  settled 
for  long  seasons  in  opera  houses,  she  would  be 
driven  into  going  in  order  to  be  near  him,  and 
study  him  in  the  behind  the  scenes  of  his  art.  But 
it  was  not  necessary  yet,  and  in  some  dim  way  she 
found  the  thing  depressing.  She  had  watched 
painters  making  pictures,  and  sculptors  modeling 
statues,  and  found  it  inspiring;  but  this  thing  was 
quite  the  opposite.  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  like 
sitting  beside  a  pianist  when  he  was  practising. 
At  any  rate,  she  decided  to  defer  further  experi 
ences  of  this  kind  till  they  were  required  of 
her. 

The  evening  of  the  performance  of  "  Don  Gio 
vanni,"  the  first  of  the  festival  series,  found  her 
seated  in  the  theater  in  a  sort  of  dull  torpor.  Her 
expected  enthusiasm  had  deserted  her.  She  cared 
only  that  the  festival  should  come  to  an  end.  She 
wished  heartily  to  go  away  from  Salzburg.  She 
hated  the  Mozarteum  with  the  great  staring  por 
trait  of  Lilli  as  Donna  Anna  set  up  beside  the 
little  yellow  book  of  Maurel  on  the  proper  method 
of  performing  "  Don  Giovanni."  It  seemed  to 


60  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

her  almost  possible  that  these  people,  even  the 
great  woman,  were  using  Mozart  as  a  means  to 
increase  their  own  glory.  But  she  dismissed  the 
thought  as  unworthy  of  her,  and  insulting  to  noble 
artists.  And  in  the  theater,  where  the  people 
around  her  whispered  about  the  genius  of  the  com 
poser  quite  as  often  as  they  did  about  that  of 
Lilli,  she  still  found  herself  unable  to  shake  off  the 
depression.  The  performance  was  really  good, 
but  to  Helen's  uncertain  view  it  was  no  better  than 
some  she  had  seen  in  New  York.  At  any  rate, 
that  was  what  she  thought  till  Lilli,  gazing  with 
wondrous  eyes  after  the  departing  Don  Giovanni, 
uttered  the  words,  "  Don  Ottavio,  son  morta." 
Then  it  was  that  Helen  saw  the  heavens  open  and 
the  inner  shrine  of  interpretative  art  disclosed  to 
her  dazzled  vision.  From  that  moment  the 
drama  became  to  her  a  realization  of  her  most 
beautiful  dreams.  One  flaming  shaft  of  the  elo 
quence  of  genius  had  reached  her  soul  and  set  it 
afire.  Even  Leander's  "  II  mio  tesoro  "  became 
glorified  in  her  mind,  and  when  the  audience,  car 
ried  away  by  the  ravishing  beauty  of  his  tones  and 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  61 

exquisite  finish  of  his  cantilena,  thundered  applause, 
she  thrilled  with  inexpressible  pride. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought;  "he,  too,  lives  in  that 
mighty  world  where  Lilli  lives.  The  artist  is  set 
apart  from  the  rest  of  us.  It  will  not  be  so  easy 
to  live  in  that  world  with  him,  but  that  is  what  I 
have  to  do." 

And  when  the  festival  was  over,  more  humble  in 
spirit  than  when  she  had  sat  by  the  margin  of  the 
lake  of  eternal  green,  Helen  went  with  her  husband 
to  Paris,  where  he  was  to  procure  costumes  for  a 
new  opera  before  setting  sail  for  the  land  of 
golden  promise. 


CHAPTER  V 

f  I  ^HE  leaves  were  flying  across  the  yet  green 

•*•  sward  of  Central  Park  and  the  first  ag 
gressive  winds  of  the  early  autumn  were  probing 
the  crannies  of  the  myriad  chimneys  of  the  rich 
on  the  Fifth  Avenue  side.  Philip  Studley  was 
swinging  along  the  walk  beside  the  west  drive, 
his  cheeks  glowing  from  healthful  outdoor  exer 
cise.  He  walked  often  in  the  Park.  He  loved 
its  sophisticated  assumption  of  rusticity  and  he 
had  many  familiars  among  the  squirrels.  But  on 
this  day  his  exercise  was  destined  to  be  rudely 
terminated  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  Mrs.  Har- 
ley  Manners  in  her  car.  She  hailed  him  from  the 
drive  and  literally  dragged  him  into  her  vehicle, 
where  in  ten  seconds  she  had  him  in  the  seething 
turmoil  of  her  undying  musical  chatter. 

"  I    am    astonished,    Mr.    Studley,"    she    said, 

"  that  after  being  a  critic  for  several  seasons  you 

62 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  63 

have  not  become  acquainted  with  more  of  the 


artists." 


"  I  have  always  felt  that  it  would  be  bad  policy 
for  me  to  do  that,"  replied  the  young  man. 
"  However,  I  am  very  well  acquainted  with  the 
wife  of  one  and  I  suppose  I  shall  come  to  know 
him  well,  too." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Manners,  "  I  remember. 
You  are  a  great  friend  of  Mrs.  Baroni,  are  you 
not?" 

"  Yes.  They  are  due  here  on  Wednesday's 
steamer." 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  about  their  sum 
mer?" 

"  No,  only  that  Baroni  sang  with  immense  suc 
cess  at  the  Mozart  festival  at  Salzburg." 

"  I  suppose  you  read  that  in  the  foreign 
papers." 

"  Well,  the  truth  is  that  Mrs.  Baroni  was  kind 
enough  to  send  me  all  the  criticisms." 

Mrs.  Harley  Manners  pricked  up  her  ears. 
Possibly  this  young  wife  "was  going  to  be  worth 
cultivating.  At  any  rate  she  seemed  to  perceive 


64  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

that  as  a  mate  for  a  tenor  she  had  certain  well- 
defined  duties. 

"  Mr.  Studley,  do  you  know  where  they  intend 
to  stay  when  they  arrive?" 

'Yes,"  said  Studley  unenthusiastically;  "they 
are  going  to  the  Plaza." 

Mrs.  Harley  Manners  let  not  the  day  pass 
before  she  had  ordered  a  "  floral  tribute  "  to  be 
placed  in  the  rooms  reserved  for  the  great  tenor 
and  his  wife.  Mrs.  Manners  already  had  bright 
visions  of  the  great  man  at  her  table.  She  also 
pondered  somewhat  on  the  possible  character  of 
the  young  wife,  and  wondered  if  a  young  matron 
who  belonged  to  no  "  set "  would  be  easy  to 
cultivate. 

Studley  went  home  to  his  little  room  and  sat 
down  to  prepare  certain  "  stuff,"  as  he  called  it, 
for  the  Sunday  paper.  While  he  clipped  off  use 
less  paragraphs  from  press  agents'  matter  or  ran 
his  pencil  through  impossible  adjectives,  he  sat 
wrapped  in  inner  reflection  on  Helen  and  her  hus 
band.  Her  two  or  three  letters  had  given  him 
some  small  uneasiness.  Was  she  going  to  make 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  65 

the  lamentable  error  of  supposing  that  she  must 
forward  her  husband's  interests?  Was  she  going 
to  constitute  herself  a  press  agent? 

Studley  was  very  young  and  his  knowledge  of 
the  world  of  music  was  small.  He  was  aflame 
with  beautiful  ideals.  It  hurt  him  to  think  that 
Helen  might  be  an  agency  in  lowering  the  splendid 
standards  of  her  husband.  No  one  had  written 
so  poetically  about  Baroni's  Lohengrin  (which 
was  not  poetic)  as  Studley  had.  Webster,  the 
oldest  of  the  music  critics,  had  poked  fun  at  him 
for  it,  and  warned  him  that  in  ten  years  he  would 
be  writing  more  conservatively  about  better  im 
personations.  But  the  young  man  smiled  and 
comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  the 
"  General "  was  suffering  the  pangs  of  many 
years.  Studley  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of 
going  to  the  opera  house  except  when  he  was 
compelled  to  do  so  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties. 
Some  of  the  scribes  called  there  every  day.  Some 
spent  much  of  their  time  at  rehearsals,  and  they 
knew  all  the  singers,  the  conductors,  the  stage  car 
penter,  the  stage  managers,  and  even  some  of  the 


66  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

orchestra  musicians.  Some  of  these  scribes  wrote 
more  gossip  than  criticism.  One  of  them  always 
carried  a  score  under  his  arm  and  made  much 
pretense  of  consulting  it.  But  Studley  knew  none 
of  the  gossip  which  these  men  knew.  He  lived 
in  his  beautiful  world  of  ideals;  and  he  had  it 
all  to  himself.  But  he  did  not  know  that. 

And  so  he  regretted  that  Helen  had  sent  him 
newspaper  comments  on  Baroni's  Salzburg  tri-  - 
umphs.  He  called  on  her  one  day  when  he  was 
sure  that  Baroni  was  out  and  stayed  only  a  few 
minutes.  For  some  reason  which  he  could  not 
define  he  was  uncomfortable  in  her  presence,  and 
he  had  a  singularly  strong  disinclination  to  meet 
Baroni,  However,  the  season  was  less  than  two 
weeks  old  when  the  young  commentator  on 
musical  doings  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
much  that  was  new  to  him. 

A  new  opera  was  to  be  produced.  All  the  prin 
cipals  had  studied  their  roles  the  previous  season; 
for  it  was  a  postponed  production.  The  chorus 
had  been  at  work  for  a  month.  Now  the  early 
orchestral  rehearsals  were  in  progress,  rehearsals 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  67 

without  scenery  or  costumes,  of  course,  but  quite 
sufficient  to  give  expert  hearers  a  clear  concep 
tion  of  the  composer's  artistic  methods.  Studley 
went  to  one  of  these  rehearsals  to  learn  some 
thing  about  the  opera,  and  hid  himself  in  a  dark 
spot  under  the  boxes. 

They  were  all  present.  The  house  was  full  of 
shadows  and  the  one  or  two  exit  lights  dimly 
burning  under  the  boxes  accentuated  the  gloom. 
The  gaping  rows  of  empty  orchestra  stalls,  with 
here  and  there  the  feathers  of  a  woman's  hat 
marking  the  presence  of  some  spectator,  had  an 
air  of  melancholy.  Scrubwomen  toiled  among 
the  boxes  and  occasionally  peered  over  the  rails 
and  looked  with  dull  curiosity  in  their  eyes  at  the 
moving  shades  in  the  pit  below  them. 

Scattered  about  in  the  orchestra  seats  were 
members  of  the  company,  some  of  them  inter 
ested  in  the  rehearsal,  others  in  those  who  were 
rehearsing,  and  still  others  killing  time  by  watch 
ing  their  associates  at  work.  A  dozen  assorted 
newspaper  men  sat  mostly  on  the  left  center  aisle. 
The  connection  between  the  front  of  the  house 


68  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

and  the  stage  was  on  the  left  and  those  who  kept 
continually  running  from  one  to  the  other  always 
assembled  on  that  side.  If  one  wished  to  know 
all  that  was  going  on,  it  was  imperative  to  be  on 
that  side.  Studley  was  on  the  other.  He  went 
there  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  In  the  front  rows, 
close  behind  the  orchestra  rail  and  also  on  the 
left  side,  sat  Mrs.  Harley  Manners.  She  had  no 
business  whatever  at  a  rehearsal.  She  was  a  rank 
outsider.  But  she  was  always  present  at  such 
affairs.  She  made  it  a  part  of  her  life's  business 
to  be  there.  In  this  way  she  became  very  friendly 
with  many  singers  and  was  able  to  get  them  to 
dine  at  her  house.  Besides  Mrs.  Manners,  there 
were  several  "  society  "  women.  They  also  had 
no  reason  except  curiosity  for  being  present  at  a 
rehearsal  and  the  impresario  and  singers  resented 
their  presence.  But  they  could  not  be  kept  out, 
because  they  were  either  relatives  or  close  friends 
of  directors.  They  made  much  trouble  for  the 
hard-working  impresario.  They  had  many  opin 
ions  as  to  how  things  ought  to  be  done,  and  these 
they  framed  into  imperative  demands  upon  their 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  69 

husbands,  brothers,  or  friends  in  the  Board. 
None  of  these  women  knew  anything  about  music 
or  the  stage.  Like  the  majority  of  their  kind, 
they  knew  almost  nothing  about  anything.  They 
could  prattle  fluently  in  French  and  they  had 
taken  u  music  lessons  "  when  they  were  at  school. 
They  imagined  that  there  was  no  more  to  know. 
They  never  read  the  librettos  of  the  operas  nor 
looked  at  the  scores.  They  did  not  know  clearly 
what  any  opera  was  about.  But  they  made  no 
hesitation  in  telling  their  husbands  or  brothers 
that  this  or  that  scene  was  performed  entirely 
incorrectly  and  that  the  costumes  were  vile  and 
that  the  prima  donna  ought  to  be  taken  out  of 
the  part.  And  what  they  said  had  no  small  power 
in  directing  the  affairs  of  the  opera  house.  The 
two  or  three  who  really  knew  things  were  wise 

enough  to  let  the  professional  musicians  alone. 

.> 

The  rehearsal  was  already  in  progress  when 
Studley  entered  the  auditorium  and  slipped  into 
his  seat  apart  from  the  others.  Baroni  was  sit 
ting  in  an  orchestra  stall  beside  his  wife.  He  did 
not  "  go  on  "  till  the  first  act  was  half  done. 


yo  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Nagy  Bosanska,  wearing  a  walking  skirt  and  a 
silk  waist,  with  her  hat  off  and  her  lustrous  hair 
dressed  high  upon  her  shapely  head,  was  going 
through  a  scene  with  Ponitzky  and  under  her 
breath  calling  him  "  Pig  "  at  every  second  meas 
ure.  Ponitzky  paid  no  attention  to  her.  He  was 
concentrating  his  gaze  on  the  conductor.  Pres 
ently  he  shouted : 

"Impossible!  Impossible!  Such  a  tempo  is 
not  to  be  thought  of.  It  must  go  twice  as 
fast." 

The  conductor  threw  down  his  baton  and  tore 
his  hair.  "  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  will  not 
be  made  responsible  for  such  a  reading.  They 
shall  not  say  that  I  am  a  fool." 

And  while  the  two  were  still  wrangling,  Helen 
whispered  in  Baroni's  ear:  "  Leander,  has  not  the 
conductor  the  deciding  voice  as  to  tempi?  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  answered  the  tenor,  "  he  has 
theoretically." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  The  truth  is,  Helen,  that  Ponitzky  is  not  as 
young  as  he  used  to  be  and  he  can't  sing  the  air 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  71 

as  slowly  as  that.     He  no  longer  has  the  breath 
support." 

"  But  I  should  think  they  would  give  the  part 
to  some  one  else  who  can  sing  it  slowly  enough. 
It  will  ruin  the  music  to  sing  it  so  fast." 

'  Yes,  it  will  not  be  so  good;  but  if  they  give 
the  role  to  any  one  else,  there  will  be  a  lot  of 
trouble  with  Ponitzky.  I  think  you'll  hear  the 
air  sung  fast." 

And  for  the  first  time  Helen  was  faced  with  the 
idea  that  artistic  considerations  sometimes  had  to 
yield  to  the  demands  of  "  artists." 

"By  the  way,  Helen,"  said  Leander;  "isn't 
that  your  friend  Studley  sitting  away  off  there  by 
himself?" 

Helen  peered  into  the  dark  shadows  under  the 
boxes  for  a  moment  before  she  recognized  Philip. 

'  Yes,  I  believe  it  is.  Lee,  you  have  eyes  like 
a  ferret." 

>c  I've   got   to   go    on   pretty   soon,"    said   he. 
*  Why  don't  you  invite  him  to  come  and  sit  with 
you?" 

"  How  can  I,  if  he  hides  away  over  there?  " 


72  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  I  think  he's  looking  this  way  now.    Try  him." 

Helen  smiled  in  Philip's  direction  and  nodded, 
although  she  did  not  believe  that  he  was  looking 
at  her.  But  he  was  and  he  returned  both  bow 
and  smile.  Then  she  beckoned  to  him.  Slowly 
and  apparently  with  some  reluctance  he  rose  and 
crossed  the  house. 

"  I'm  so  glad,  Philip,"  she  said;  "  Leander  has 
to  go  on  the  stage  soon  and  I  want  you  to  keep 
me    company.     You    know    my    husband,    don't" 
you?" 

The  two  men  bowed,  Philip  rather  more  for 
mally  than  the  tenor. 

44  I'm  glad  of  this  opportunity,"  said  Leander, 
"  to  thank  you  for  many  kind  words." 

"  You  should  not  thank  a  critic,"  replied  Philip 
somewhat  coldly.  "  The  artist  has  only  himself 
to  thank.  If  the  critic  fails  to  appreciate  the  art, 
he  is  not  fit  to  be  a  critic." 

"  Priggish  young  pup,"  thought  Leander,  as 
he  walked  away  to  go  on  the  stage;  "he'll  get 
over  all  that  if  he  stays  in  the  business." 

Which  indicated  that  the  tenor  had  a  fine  ca- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  73 

pacity  for  misunderstanding.  Philip  and  Helen 
watched  the  stage  with  renewed  interest.  Nagy 
Bosanska's  scene  with  Ponitzky  had  ended  some 
time  back,  and  her  long  monologue,  through 
which  she  slid  languidly  at  less  than  half  voice, 
nodding  and  whispering  and  occasionally  indi 
cating  her  tempo  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot  for 
the  benefit  of  the  conductor,  had  come  to  its  con 
clusion  in  a  sudden  burst  of  liquid  tone,  let  loose 
at  full  voice.  She  turned  to  greet  Leander  as  he 
entered.  They  stood  for  a  moment.  Then  with 
her  lithe,  exquisite  body  swaying  slightly  from  the 
hips,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  and  a  flower 
dangling  by  its  long  stem  from  her  crimson  lips, 
she  undulated  slowly,  languorously  across  the 
stage  till  she  stood  before  the  tenor.  She  took 
the  flower  from  her  mouth  and  struck  him  gently 
across  the  lips  with  it,  and  sang: 

"  '  E  bello  e  ardito.'  " 

Twice  she  sang  the  line,  as  the  score  required, 
and  then  laughed.  Helen  could  not  have  told 
why,  but  a  sudden  wave  of  coldness  ran  swiftly 
through  her  veins  and  vanished,  while  there 


74  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

dimly  sounded  in  the  remotest  chambers  of  her 
memory  the  fate  motive  in  "  Carmen."  And  then 
she  turned  to  Philip  and  smiled. 

"  Do  you  know  Mile.  Bosanska?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  You  see,  the  fact  is 
that  I  know  only  two  or  three  of  these  opera 
people  and  none  of  the  important  ones  at  all. 
Kraft,  the  German  conductor,  is  the  one  I  know 
best.  He  has  really  fine  musicianship  and  I  have 
learned  much  from  him." 

"Listen!  "  exclaimed  Helen;  "  Leander  is  ac 
tually  singing  out  loud." 

'  Well,  he  is  not  exerting  himself,"  said  Philip, 
"  but  he  is  not  holding  back  anything  either.  I 
suppose  he  gives  his  voice  a  little  exercise  some 
times  even  at  rehearsal." 

But  in  a  few  minutes  it  became  plain  to  the 
two  listeners  that  this  could  hardly  be  called  voice 
exercise.  Leander  and  Nagy  Bosanska  had  grad 
ually  abandoned  themselves  to  the  spirit  of  the 
scene  and  before  it  was  ended  they  were  both 
singing  with  a  fervor  of  style  and  a  splendor  of 
tone  which  would  have  glorified  a  first  perform- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  75 

ance.  Nagy  Bosanska,  her  form  wreathing  like 
that  of  a  sinuous  serpent,  hurled  herself  upon  him 
in  the  ecstasy  of  the  simulated  embrace  called  for 
by  the  action  and  he  grasped  her  in  his  athletic 
arms  and  held  her  firmly  while  he  pealed  out  the 
clarion  phrase  in  which  the  composer  had  voiced 
the  first  declaration  of  passion  in  the  opera.  The 
scene  ended  the  act.  As  the  last  note  sounded 
from  the  piano,  Nagy  Bosanska  still  standing  in 
Leander's  embrace,  slowly  lifted  her  eyes  to  his, 
and  then,  springing  backward,  burst  into  a  ringing 
and  somewhat  sardonic  laugh.  Next  she  turned 
and  ran  off  the  stage  and  out  into  the  orchestra 
stalls,  where  she  fell  back  into  a  seat,  still  laugh 
ing.  Leander  followed  her,  smiling  uncon 
cernedly. 

"  What  moves  you  to  such  laughter,  Nagy?" 
he  asked. 

"  Only  you,"  she  replied;  "  but  it  is  that  you- 
are  such  an  innocent  big  baby." 

Helen  heard  this,  for  the  soprano  was  only 
two  rows  in  front  of  her,  and  a  little  color  crept 
into  her  cheeks.  She  had  not  yet  become  familiar 


76  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

with  the  freedom  of  the  theater.  Leander  left 
the  soprano  and  returned  to  Helen,  but  Nagy 
Bosanska  stood  up  and  gazed  after  him.  Then 
with  a  sudden  silent  movement  she  was  at  his  side. 

"  And  why  shall  you  not  introduce  me  to  your 
beautiful  wife?  "  she  said. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Leander  with  a  chilly  in 
flection  in  his  speech.  "  Helen,  this  is  Mile.  Nagy 
Bosanska,  who  is  to  sing  the  soprano  role- — and 
I  suppose  I  may  also  take  the  liberty  of  intro 
ducing  Mr.  Studley  to  you,  Nagy." 

The  soprano  smiled  a  slow,  strange,  inscrutable 
smile,  as  she  studied  the  three  faces.  Then  she 
suddenly  laughed  aloud. 

"  Mr.  Studley,"  she  said,  "  if  you  were  a  bary 
tone,  and  Mrs.  Baroni  a  contralto,  we  might  sing 
the  quartet  from  '  Rigoletto.'  " 

"  You  are  casting  my  wife  for  the  role  of  Mad- 
dalena  and  yourself  for  Gilda,  which  you  can't 
sing.  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Nagy?  "  said 
Leander. 

"  I  don't  know  myself.  I  am  half  gipsy.  I 
am  not  bound  always  to  know  what  my  thoughts 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  77 

mean.  They  come — they  go — piff  !  like  that. 
But  of  course  Mrs.  Baroni  could  not  be 
a  contralto,"  she  added  in  a  slow,  low  utterance; 
"  they  and  the  barytones  are  always  unhappy  in 
love." 

And  then  with  another  thin  cutting  laugh  Nagy 
Bosanska  ran  back  to  the  stage,  while  Leander 
indulgently  smiled  and  the  other  two  looked  unut 
terable  questions. 

"  Don't  mind  her,"  said  Leander;  "  she  thinks 
it  is  her  duty  to  be  weird  because  she  has  gipsy 
blood.  But  it  does  not  mean  anything." 

But  the  young  newspaper  man  thought  it  was 
artistic  temperament. 


CHAPTER  VI 

^TTMiE  new  opera  was  duly  produced  and  prop- 
-*-  erly  applauded  by  a  brilliant  audience.  The 
Herald  had  over  a  column  of  names  of  those  pres 
ent.  It  was  a  social  event.  Helen  eagerly  read  all 
the  newspapers themorning  after  the  performance. 

"  Oh,  Lee,"  she  exclaimed,  "  listen  to  this  in 
the  Tribune.  l  The  composer  has  published  the 
emotions  of  his  chief  actors  in  a  melodic  manner 
of  a  reactionary.  We  are  invited  to  listen  once 
again  to  the  strumming  of  the  Bellini  guitar.'  I 
think  that  is  just  a  little  too  violent,  don't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  mind  what  those  fellows 
say,"  replied  Leander;  "you  see,  their  ideas  and 
ours  are  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  What  he  calls 
the  Bellini  guitar  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a 
decent  accompaniment  under  good  writing  for  the 
voice.  This  music  can  be  sung.  It  gives  a  singer 
a  chance  to  make  a  tremendous  success." 

Helen  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  for 

78 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  79 

she  was  trying  to  stifle  the  growing  conviction  that 
opera  singers  placed  themselves  and  their  success 
before  the  composer  and  his.  This  fundamental 
truth  had  been  flaunted  before  her  senses  now 
several  times. 

"What  does  he  say  about  Nagy? "  asked 
Leander. 

Helen  understood  that  her  husband  really 
wished  to  know  what  was  said  about  himself.  She 
had  advanced  that  far  in  her  education  as  the  wife 
of  a  tenor.  But  of  course  he  would  ask  about 
Nagy. 

"  He  says  that  Mile.  Bosanska  valiantly  en 
deavored  to  reduce  the  heroine  to  terms  of 
Carmen  and  almost  succeeded,  and  that  she  sang 
with  more  brilliancy  than  insight." 

"  Nagy  won't  mind  that  sort  of  talk.  She'll 
translate  that  into  her  own  language  to  this  effect  : 
Mile.  Bosanska  was  an  irresistible  little  gipsy  and 
she  sang  so  that  the  house  rang  with  bravas.  I 
suppose  there  is  something  about  the  old  husband, 
too." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Helen  with  some  slight  hesi- 


8o  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

tation.  "  He  says  that  Baroni  poured  out  his 
glorious  voice  with  his  customary  prodigality  and 
made  all  his  habitual  ritardandi  and  diminuendi 
and  used  the  mezza  voce  in  the  inevitable  places, 
and  that  it  is  a  great  pity  that  he  has  so  much 
vocal  skill  and  so  little  imagination." 

"Humph!"  exclaimed  Leander;  "what  does 
he  know  about  it,  I  should  like  to  ask?  A  poverty- 
stricken  scribbler  who  tries  to  earn  his  living  by  . 
seeming  to  be  smart  in  the  morning  after  he  has 
been  stupid  all  the  evening.  He's  an  ignoramus. 
I  always  knew  he  was." 

Leander's  cheeks  were  quite  crimson  by  this 
time  and  he  went  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
as  hard  as  he  could.  Helen  gazed  at  him  re 
flectively.  Was  it  true  that  he  lacked  imagina 
tion?  She  had  never  thought  about  it  before. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  said: 

"  What  does  your  friend  Studley  say  about  the 
performance?  " 

Helen  searched  in  the  pile  of  papers  till  she 
found  that  for  which  Philip  wrote,  and  turning 
to  the  amusement  page  read  swiftly. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  81 

"  Well,"  she  said  presently,  "  he  seems  to  think 
that  the  opera  is  a  clever,  but  superficial  work, 
and  that " 

"  Oh,  bother  that  rot!"  exclaimed  Leander. 
"Let  me  tell  you  something,  my  dear  girl;  it 
doesn't  make  an  ounce  of  difference  what  these 
so-called  critics  say  about  an  opera.  They  write 
a  lot  of  pretentious  twaddle.  Most  of  them 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  it  is  that  makes 
an  opera  a  success.  If  the  tenor  and  the  soprano 
have  plenty  of  good  melody  to  sing  and  one  or 
two  lively  love  scenes  with  a  corking  climax, 
allegro  con  brio,  with  a  couple  of  B  flats  in  it, 
and  there  is  a  fair  amount  of  doings  for  the 
barytone  and  contralto,  plenty  of  loud  music  for 
the  chorus,  and  a  good  ballet  or  procession,  it  is 
a  tolerably  safe  bet  that  the  opera  will  catch  on. 
And  that  is  what  we  are  all  in  the  business  for. 
We  are  not  there  for  psychology  or  imaginations 
or  aesthetics.  We  are  there  to  make  the  public 
shout  and  clap  its  hands,  and  hasten  to  put  more 
dollars  in  the  box  office." 

Then  Helen  laughed  heartily,  for  she  was  as 


82  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

certain  as  she  was  of  her  own  love  for  him  that 
this  was  merely  Leander's  pose.  She  was  sure 
that  no  man  could  sing  as  he  could  if  he  were 
concerned  only  with  the  catchpenny  devices  of 
the  lyric  stage.  But  long  afterward  the  chilly 
words  came  back  into  her  mind.  Leander  smiled 
indulgently  when  he  heard  the  laugh. 

'*  That  does  my  heart  good,  girlie.  These  critic 
fellows  take  themselves  so  seriously  that  they 
make  every  one  else  merry.  But  you  haven't  yet 
told  me  what  Studley  says  about  me." 

"  He  says  your  singing  had  all  the  brilliancy 
and  changing  tints  of  an  iceberg,"  replied  Helen 
softly. 

"Well,  that's  a  fine  backhander,  isn't  it?  An 
iceberg,  eh !  See  here,  Helen,  what  sort  of  a  chap 
is  this  Studley,  anyhow?  " 

"  Surely,  Lee,  you  don't  care  what  he  says,  do 
you?" 

"  No,  of  course  not;  but  all  the  same  he  ought 
not  to  write  that  way  about  me.  I'm  the  husband 
of  a  woman  he  calls  an  old  and  close  friend, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  he  might  just  as 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  83 

well  make  things  a  little  more  agreeable  for  all 
of  us." 

'  You  don't  mean  that  you  will  show  any  resent 
ment  on  account  of  his  criticism,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
to  do  that.  You  have  to  take  these  fellows  as 
they  come,  if  you  want  to  get  anything  out  of 
them  in  the  long  run.  The  idiots  are  not  for  sale, 
you  know.  People  who  say  they  can  be  bought 
know  nothing  about  the  game.  That  isn't  the 
way  it's  done.  A  little  judicious  flattery  and  con 
tinual  diplomacy  are  the  only  weapons.  Of  course 
I'm  going  to  be  agreeable  when  I  see  him,  and 
so  must  you.  You  must  treat  him  all  the  better. 
Be  as  sweet  as  you  like  to  him;  I  won't  mind.  It's 
all  in  a  good  cause." 

"  But  I  thought  you  didn't  care  what  these 
fellows  said  and  that  they  don't  know  any 
thing." 

'  You  misunderstood  me,  girlie.  I  said  you 
must  not  care  what  they  wrote  about  an  opera, 
because  they  don't  know.  But  one  naturally  cares 
when  they  try  to  make  people  believe  that  there's 


84  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

something  wrong  with  his  singing.  That's  our 
stock  in  trade." 

After  that  there  was  a  silence  which  was  not 
broken  till  Leander  declared  that  it  was  time  for 
him  to  go  out  and  take  his  morning  walk.  He 
always  did  a  swift  four  miles  in  the  morning, 
unless  it  was  pouring.  Ordinarily  bad  weather 
was  not  considered.  One  of  his  peculiarities  was 
that  he  did  not  take  care  of  himself  after  the 
manner  of  singers,  but  after  that  of  college  ath 
letes,  and  that  was  why  he  so  seldom  was  "  indis 
posed,"  as  they  call  it  in  opera  land. 

Ten  minutes  after  he  had  gone,  Philip  Studley 
was  announced.  Helen  had  told  him  he  might 
come  in  any  day  before  luncheon,  because  his 
afternoons  were  usually  occupied  with  concerts. 
Helen  greeted  him  with  unaffected  pleasure.  His 
nature  was  distinctly  grateful  to  her,  though  for 
just  what  reason  she  could  not  herself  tell.  But 
she  did  know  that  instinctively  she  disclosed  to 
him  certain  precious  bits  of  her  innner  life  which 
equally  instinctively  she  did  not  unshrinkingly  lay 
at  the  feet  of  her  husband.  And  yet  she  knew 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  85 

that  she  loved  Leander,  and  that  Philip,  dear 
fellow  that  he  was,  belonged  to  the  undistin 
guished  fraternity  of  life-long  brothers. 

"  Leander  has  just  gone  for  his  morning  walk," 
said  Helen;  "  you  know  he  reels  off  four  or  five 
miles  every  day  at  a  racing  pace." 

"  Yes,  I  have  read  all  about  that  in  the  papers. 
You  know  the  yellow  journalism  of  to-day  makes 
far  more  account  of  the  private  habits  of  singers 
than  of  their  art." 

"Certainly,"  laughed  Helen;  "it  was  almost 
maddening  to  me  at  first  to  find  camera  men  lying 
in  wait  for  us  everywhere,  but  we  don't  mind — I 
mean  I  don't  mind — it  now." 

"  Of  course  your  husband  doesn't  mind  it.  He 
must  have  grown  used  to  it  years  ago,"  responded 
Philip  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Helen  thoughtfully,  and  then 
for  a  moment  she  was  silent. 

'  You  know,"  she  continued,  as  if  with  a  slight 
effort,  "  in  his  profession  it  is  important  for  him 
to  keep  in  the  public  eye." 

Philip  thought  that  the  right  way  to  do  this 


86  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

was  by  being  a  great  artist,  but  he  was  too  wise 
to  say  so,  and  he  briefly  agreed  with  Helen.  They 
were  both  quiet  for  a  few  minutes.  They  were 
real  friends;  they  did  not  have  to  talk  incessantly. 
It  was  Helen  who  spoke  first. 

"  Philip,  I  often  wonder  whether  a  woman  can 
enter  perfectly  into  a  man's  ideals." 

"  I  should  say  that  depended  upon  the  woman 
and  the  ideals." 

"  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  a  wife  ought 
not  to  try  to  become  part  of  her  husband's  intel 
lectual  or  artistic  life,  but  merely  remain  on  the 
borders  of  it  as  a  sentinel  to  keep  away  intru 


sion." 


"  You  have  your  choice  of  two  points  of  view 
in  the  matter,"  said  the  young  man,  smiling;  "  in 
the  first  place  there  is  the  discriminative  theory  of 
Hamerton  in  his  '  Intellectual  Life.'  He  believes 
that  the  intellectual  man  ought  to  take  one  of 
two  courses.  Either  he  should  marry  some  sim 
ple,  dutiful  woman  who  would  devote  herself  en 
tirely  to  the  household  and  love  him  trustfully 
without  jealousy  of  his  occupations,  or  some 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  87 

highly  intelligent  woman,  willing  to  undergo  the 
labor  of  following  him  in  his  studies." 

Helen  answered  nothing,  for  neither  of  these 
cases  seemed  to  meet  the  immediate  requirements 
of  her  situation. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Philip  after  waiting  for  the 
reply  which  did  not  come,  "  you  will  prefer  to 
think  with  Weininger  that  no  woman  ever  knows, 
or  can  know  or  will  know,  what  she  does  when 
she  mates  with  a  man;  but  that  at  any  rate  she 
has  the  power  to  bridge  some  difficulties  by  acting 
in  direct  opposition  to  what  she  is  herself." 

Helen  looked  up  with  a  startled  expression  on 
her  face. 

"  Why  should  a  woman  do  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  replied  Philip,  u  my  knowl 
edge  of  the  married  state  is  pretty  small,  for,  as 

my  friend  Hamerton,  whom  I  quoted  before,  has 

> 

said,  no  man  really  knows  anything  about  any 
marriage  except  his  own.  But  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  some  wives  have  to  live  a  rather  long 
and  weary  falsehood  in  order  to  save  their  mar 
ried  lives  from  going  to  wreck." 


88  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

u  It  seems  to  me  that  neither  Hamerton  nor 
Weininger  has  taken  into  consideration  the  state 
of  things  which  might  exist  between  a  man  and 
a  woman  who  were  willing  to  grant  each  other 
perfect  independence  in  intellectual  matters." 

"  Hamerton  has  written  something  on  that 
point,  but  Weininger  did  not  believe  that  women 
had  real  intellects  and  he  did  believe  that  they 
were  incapable  of  truth.  But  your  independence 
plan  might  work  well  enough  where  both  had 
intellectual  pursuits.  But  if  the  wife,  for  instance, 
were  a  great  novelist  and  the  husband  were  only 
a  sportsman,  I  am  afraid  there  would  always  be 
trouble." 

"  Yes,  but  such  people  would  never  marry." 

"  It's  been  heard  of,"  said  Philip  with  a  smile. 

"  Would  you  marry  a  woman  who  could  not 
share  your  inner  life?  " 

"  Oh,  I !  Well,  you  see,  I'm  an  eclectic  in  all 
my  theories  of  sex  relations.  On  that  particular 
point  I  am  heart  and  soul  with  Ellen  Key.  There 
is  only  one  real  kind  of  love  and  that  is  the  kind 
which  unites  the  whole  nature  of  the  man  with 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  89 

the  whole  nature  of  the  woman.  It  is  neither  all 
physical  or  all  spiritual,  but  the  fullness  of  both. 
Those  who  have  this  love  know  one  another. 
Their  union  is  perfect.  They  are  made  truly 
one  and  attain  the  highest  glory  of  living." 

Helen  rose  from  her  chair  and  walked  quickly 
to  a  window.  For  a  few  moments  she  stood  look 
ing  out  into  the  prosaic  vista  of  the  avenue  and 
then  turned  to  Philip,  and  in  a  most  casual  man 
ner,  as  if  serious  topics  were  furthest  from  her 
mind,  said: 

'  You  didn't  care  much  for  the  new  opera,  did 
you?" 

"  No,  not  much.  It  is  smart,  and  I  dislike 
smartness  in  all  its  forms.  All  little  brains  are 
smart.  Big  ones  never  are.  Think  of  Michael 
Angelo  or  Leonardo  da  Vinci  doing  anything 
smart.  Think  of  Beethoven  being  smart.  No, 
that  is  what  George  Bernard  Shaw  is,  and  news 
papers  cable  his  gabblings  under  three  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  and  aesthetic  hucksters  of  both 
sexes  prattle  them  over  in  the  market  places.  And 
I  am  more  than  half  afraid  that  Richard  Strauss 


90  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

is  smart  in  music  in  one  way  just  as  this  new 
opera's  composer  is  in  another.  It's  all  paint  and 
mannerism,  like  the  ridiculous  fantasms  of  the 
cubists  and  the  futurists.  Set  one  of  those  silly 
things  beside  the  disintegrating  Last  Supper  of 
Leonardo  and  it  looks  like  a  Parisian  cocotte  in 
the  presence  of  the  Venus  de  Milo." 

Another  silence  fell  upon  them.  Helen's  eyes 
studied  a  pattern  in  the  rug  at  her  feet  and  Philip 
studied  her  eyelashes  as  they  fell  in  a  soft  shadow 
on  her  delicate  cheek.  How  exquisite  she  was, 
how  perfect  an  embodiment  of  the  equal  balance 
of  physical  and  spiritual  qualities.  Philip's  ad 
miration  was  frank;  it  had  an  element  of  adora 
tion.  If  he  had  been  a  Catholic  she  would  have 
been  his  idea  of  the  Madonna.  Suddenly  she 
looked  up  and  found  him  gazing  straight  into  her 
eyes.  Her  lids  trembled  just  a  little  and  a  faint 
pink  crept  into  her  cheeks. 

"  You  cherish  ideals,  do  you  not,  Philip?  "  she 
said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Of  course.  They  are  the  best  of  life.  Men 
live  for  them,  die  for  them." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  91 

"  Women  have  ideals,  too,"  she  said;  "  and  I 
think  sometimes  they,  too,  die  for  them." 

And  after  that  their  talk  was  most  common 
place  till  Philip  went  away.  In  the  street  he 
stopped  as  if  an  unseen  force  had  hurled  itself 
against  him. 

u  I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  everything 
is  all  right  there.  Can  it  be  that  the  coldness  in 
Baroni's  singing  is  the  reflection  of  an  apathetic 
nature?  But  even  so,  how  is  it  that  she  has  failed 
to  melt  the  ice?  How  could  any  man  live  near 
her  and  not  become  great?  " 

It  was  a  question  that  came  back  to  him  more 
than  once  in  days  long  afterward.  He  was  not 
in  love  with  Helen.  Perhaps,  if  circumstances 
had  been  right,  he  might  have  been.  He  had 
often  felt  the  compelling  charm  of  her  divine  per 
son,  but  there  had  never  been  anything  in  his  feel 
ing  for  her  beyond  a  strong  tenderness.  And  now 
as  he  pondered  upon  the  new  doubt  in  his  mind 
as  to  her  happiness,  he  wondered  more  and  more 
whether  the  tenor  really  knew  that  he  had  taken 
into  his  home  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Nature. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TN  the  swift  passage  of  the  crowded  New  York 
"•-  season,  when  he  had  to  attend  from  two  to 
five  performances  of  music  in  each  day  and  to 
prepare  a  page  of  comment  and  notes  for  the 
Sunday  issue  of  his  paper,  Philip  did  not  meet 
Helen  again  for  a  month.  Neither  did  he  have 
any  conversation  with  her  husband.  He  was  con 
scious  of  smoldering  antagonism  to  the  popular 
tenor  and  he  fought  against  it  with  all  his  resolu 
tion.  Nevertheless  there  was  within  him  a  grow 
ing  conviction  that  Leander  was  a  self-centered 
epitome  of  artistic  insincerity.  He  studied  the 
man's  art  with  the  closest  scrutiny,  but  could  find 
nothing  in  it  below  the  surface.  Yet  he  dared 
not  write  the  truth,  for  he  feared  that  feeling 
might  be  leading  judgment. 

If  he  had  known  neither  Leander  nor  Helen, 
his  comments  on  the  tenor's  singing  would  un 
doubtedly  have  been  such  as  to  arouse  a  storm  in 

92 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  93 

operatic  centers  and  probably  to  set  the  directors 
to  considering  once  more  whether  it  would  not 
be  a  proper  vindication  of  the  glory  of  their  insti 
tution  to  cease  advertising  in  Philip's  paper,  stop 
issuing  his  tickets,  and  exclude  him  from  the 
house.  But  Philip  wrote  with  reserve  and  harped 
heavily  on  the  beauty  of  Leander's  voice  and  the 
perfection  of  his  technic. 

If  he  had  only  known  it,  this  was  all  that 
Leander  wished.  Philip  had  yet  to  learn  that 
musicians,  especially  singers,  almost  never  discuss 
anything  but  technical  points.  Meanwhile  matters 
were  moving  in  a  direction  which  threatened  the 
general  peace.  Day  by  day  Helen  found  herself 
plunging  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  sea  of  doubt. 
There  was  something  in  Leander's  attitude  toward 
his  art  which  troubled  her.  She  could  not  tell 

what  it  was,  but  in  some  vague  way  she  felt  that 

> 

it  had  a  relation  to  his  love  for  her. 

The  first  clear  awakening  came  to  her  one 
morning  when  Leander  was  at  work  restudying  an 
old  role  in  which  he  was  to  appear  before  the  end 
of  the  season.  It  was  des  Grieux  in  Puccini's 


94  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Manon  Lescaut,"  and  he  had,  as  he  expressed 
it,  become  "  rusty  "  in  almost  every  page  of  it. 
Helen  was  astonished  to  find  that  he  did  not  sit 
down  at  home  with  the  score  and  read  it  through 
carefully  before  he  began  work  with  the  accom 
panist.  He  told  her  that  such  a  proceeding  would 
be  quite  useless.  He  knew  the  story  and  the  points 
of  the  part.  All  that  he  had  to  do  was  to  set  to 
work  to  recover  the  text  and  the  music.  He  had 
advanced  as  far  as  the  second  act  and  was  now 
working  on  that. 

"  'Sempre  la  stessa,  sempre  la  stessa. 
Trepida  divinamente 
Nel  1'abbandono  ardente,'" 

Leander  sang,  and  then  suddenly  interrupted  him 
self  to  say  to  the  accompanist: 

"  Confound  the  fool,  why  does  he  run  me  away 
down  to  the  bottom  of  my  medium  right  there, 
when  in  another  phrase  he  carries  me  up  to  a 
high  A?" 

"  It  is  certain  that  he  is  a  pig,"  answered  the 
French  accompanist,  who  had  no  love  for  Puccini. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  95 

"  You  should  sing  only  in  the  '  Manon  '  of  Mas 
senet.  But  if  monsieur  will  pardon  me,  he  can 
take  the  low  phrase  with  almost  no  voice  at  all, 
for  who  will  care,  so  long  as  the  high  A  comes 
out  well?" 

"  Now,  Cartier,  old  man,  that's  what  I  call 
horse  sense.  You  are  the  best  trainer  I've  had 
in  five  years  and  it's  all  because  you  have 


sense." 


"  Leander,"  said  Helen  in  a  soft  voice,  "  can 
you  tell  me  what  this  Italian  text  means  in  this 
passage  for  des  Grieux?  " 

"  Well,  roughly  speaking,  Helen,  it's  like  this. 
Des  Grieux  says,  '  Manon,  you  thoughtlessly  be 
tray  me.  Always  the  same  are  you.  Divinely 
trembling  in  ardent  abandonment,  good  and  gen 
tle,  how  the  passion  of  your  embrace  thrills  me. 
Then  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  the  splendor  of 
pleasure,  I,  your  slave  and  your  victim,  descend 
the  ladder  of  infamy.  Earth  to  earth  am  I,  and 
the  pitiable  hero  of  a  gambling  hell.'  ' 

"I  see,"  said  Helen  thoughtfully.  "  Why 
would  it  not  be  better  to  saturate  yourself  with 


96  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

the  misery  of  these  thoughts  and  try  to  express 
them  in  the  music  than  to  worry  over  a  high  A?  " 

Leander  looked  at  her  in  immeasurable  aston 
ishment  for  a  few  moments  and  then  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter.  He  looked  at  Cartier  and  Cartier 
smiled  politely,  as  one  who  was  disposed  to  listen 
with  some  respect  to  the  utterance  of  the  wife,  but 
not  inclined  to  offend  the  tenor. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Leander,  when  he  had 
recovered  from  his  laughter,  u  I  am  trying  to  do 
just  the  very  thing  you  have  told  me  to  do,  but 
I  am  doing  it  as  a  professional,  not  as  an  ama 
teur.  If  I  get  the  musical  phrases  right,  the  ex 
pression  will  take  care  of  itself.  That  has  all 
been  arranged  by  the  composer.  But  when  he 
writes  an  ineffective  passage  for  the  voice,  he 
spoils  his  own  plan  and  lessens  my  chance  for 
success  with  the  scene." 

"  I  see,"  said  Helen;  u  go  on  with  your  study, 
Lee;  I  shan't  interrupt  you  again." 

There  was  something  curiously  dry  and  hard 
in  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke,  and  for  a  moment 
it  arrested  the  attention  of  the  tenor,  but  not  for 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  97 

long.  He  was  soon  buried  in  the  score  of  Puccini 
again,  and  she  heard  him  saying  to  Cartier: 

"  Now  there  is  fine  writing  for  the  voice." 

Then  he  sang:  "  Vitima  descendo  la  scala  del 
1'infamia." 

"  Some  sense  in  that,  eh?  "  he  said  to  Cartier. 
"  Starting  with  the  upper  G  on  *  vi '  and  keeping 
the  voice  up  to  the  E  on  '  scendo  '  and  then  giv 
ing  the  B  flat  on  *  la  ' — why,  it  sings  itself." 

Cartier  said  to  himself  that  if  he  had  been 
composing  the  scene  he  would  not  have  put  the 
emphasis  on  u  la  "  but  on  "  sea,"  the  first  syllable 
of  "  scala,"  but  since  the  tenor  had  an  advan 
tageous  placing  of  his  high  B  flat,  all  would  be 
well. 

When  the  morning's  work  was  over  Leander 
went  out  for  his  usual  four  miles  of  exercise.  And 
for  once  he  and  Helen  took  their  luncheon  alone 
in  their  apartment.  When  they  had  finished  and 
were  sitting  yet  at  the  table,  the  young  wife  gazed 
rather  wistfully  at  her  husband  and  said: 

"  Lee,  I  wish  you  would  be  more  frank  with 


me." 


98  THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  What  do  you  mean,  little  girl?  " 

"  Let  me  into  the  inner  closet  of  your  artistic 
life;  don't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  an  outsider,  an 
amateur  incapable  of  understanding  your  ideals. 
I  am  not  an  amateur  at  all.  I  am  your  wife,  a 
part  of  you,  a  part  of  your  soul,  and  there  is 
nothing  that  you  can  be  or  feel  or  think  that  I 
cannot  understand." 

She  spoke  with  a  sudden  and  rising  ardor,  and 
Leander  gazed  upon  her  with  kindling  admiration. 
He  rose  quickly  from  his  seat,  and,  striding 
around  to  her  side,  kissed  her  cheek  kindly. 

"  You  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  of  course  you  are 


not  an  amateur." 


"  Lee,"  she  said  gravely,  as  he  resumed  his 
seat,  "  it  isn't  a  child's  bruise  to  be  cured  with 
a  kiss." 

"  Sweetheart,  you  are  making  a  mountain  out 
of  a  molehill,  aren't  you?  I  don't  quite  catch 
the  point  of  your  trouble." 

"  Surely,  Lee,  you  do  not  expect  me  to  believe 
that  when  you  are  studying  a  role,  you  think  of 
nothing  but  the  voice  effects." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR  99 

"  Well,  it  comes  to  pretty  near  that.  If  you 
were  an  amateur,  as  you  don't  seem  willing  to  be, 
I  should  let  you  talk  a  lot  of  rubbish,  but  I  can't 
do  that  sort  of  thing  with  my  wife.  If  I  get  the 
vocal  effects  of  this  part  all  properly  planned,  I 
shall  have  another  big  success  with  it,  and  it  ought 
to  be  bigger  than  it  was  when  I  first  sang  it,  be 
cause  I  know  so  much  more  now  than  I  did  then." 

Helen  remained  silent  for  fully  a  minute  trying 
to  gather  the  inner  significance  of  these  words. 
It  had  always  been  her  habit  of  mind  to  strive 
to  look  clear  through  anything  that  was  said  to 
her  and  study  it  from  the  rear,  as  it  were.  And 
just  now  her  husband's  words  seemed  to  her  to 
mean  so  much  more  than  they  said. 

"  Lee,"  she  finally  said,  "  am  I  to  believe  that 
opera  singers  think  only  of  technical  effects?  " 

"  That  is  about  what  it  all  comes  to,  dear.    We 

> 

are  all  trying  to  make  successes  of  our  roles,  are 
we  not?  And  the  way  to  do  that  is  to  get  the 
big  effects  over  the  footlights." 

"  But  don't  you  think  of  the  glory  of  the  mas 
ter  who  wrote  the  work?  " 


ioo         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Now,  my  dear  love,  can't  you  see  that  if  I 
get  the  voice  effects  all  right  in  '  Lohengrin  '  that 
the  part  will  carry  as  Wagner  intended  it  to,  and 
that  I  shall  have  a  big  success?  It  is  all  right 
to  talk  about  the  composer,  but  just  think  of  this : 
if  I  could  not  make  a  big  public  success  in  *  Lo 
hengrin,'  what  good  would  it  be  for  me  to  rever 
ence  Wagner?  Any  performance  of  the  opera 
with  a  failure  in  the  title  role  would  not  be  to  the 
glory  of  Wagner,  would  it?  The  first  thing  to 
look  out  for  is  the  success  of  the  singer.  The 
composer  will  come  out  all  right  if  that  is  made 
certain." 

Leander  smiled  indulgently  upon  her,  as  if  he 
were  talking  to  a  child  and  flooding  its  imma 
ture  intelligence  with  new  light.  And  indeed 
he  was  doing  just  that,  for  Helen  was  listen 
ing  to  him  with  a  growing,  yet  wholly  in 
definable,  fear  in  the  most  secret  recesses  of  her 
soul. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said  slowly  and  in 
a  low  tone. 

Leander  rose  and  went  to  her  side.    He  patted 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         101 

her  softly  on  the  head  and  cooed  at  her  with  a 
little  sarcasm  in  his  tone : 

"  Don't  be  an  amateur,  Helen,  if  you  can  help 
it.  Remember  that  you  are  the  wife  of  a  profes 
sional  and  learn  to  look  at  things  with  profes 
sional  eyes.  And  don't  forget  that  the  most  im 
portant  thing  in  the  business  for  us  is  my  suc 


cess." 


"  I  am  trying  to  come  down  to  that  level,"  re 
sponded  Helen. 

Leander  stared  at  her  for  an  instant  and  ceased 
to  caress  her.  He  strode  across  the  room  and 
back. 

"  Look  here,  Helen,"  he  said;  "  I  don't  quite 
like  the  way  you  speak  about  it.  You  have  no 
reason  for  saying  that  you  are  coming  down  to 
my  level." 

"  I  said  '  that '  level." 

> 

'  Well,  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.     It's  my 

level,  isn't  it?  " 

1  You  seem  to  desire  that  I  should  think  so." 
There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  several 

minutes,  while  Leander  went  and  gazed  out  of  a 


102         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

window  and  seemed  to  be  plunged  in  annoying 
thought.  He  drummed  on  a  pane  of  glass  and 
whistled  softly.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  went 
back  to  his  wife's  side. 

"  Helen,"  he  said;  u  I  am  pained;  I  am  disap 
pointed.  I  am  beginning  to  be  afraid  that  you  do 
not  understand." 

"  Do  not  understand  what?"  she  asked  in  a 
dull  tone. 

"  Me,"  he  replied. 

She  hesitated  a  little  before  she  spoke  again. 
"  I — I  think  I  understand  you.  Perhaps  it  is  art 
that  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Yes,  that  must  be  it.  Think  about  it,  Helen. 
You  really  must  get  the  right  idea  of  the  thing, 
or  we  shall  have  disputes  about  it  often,  and  I'm 
afraid  I'm  not  very  patient.  You  see,  I  am  an 
artist.  Art  is  my  business,  and — and — well,  you 
know  you  ought  to  pay  attention  to  what  I  say 
about  it.  Good-by  for  a  while." 

He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  lightly  on  the 
forehead  and  went  out.  Mechanically  she  passed 
her  hand  across  the  spot  where  he  had  kissed  her 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          103 

and  drew  a  quick,  short  breath,  as  if  something 
had  suddenly  hurt  her.  Then  she  crossed  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  gazed  before  her  into  the 
land  of  thought. 

No,  she  told  herself,  it  was  not  amazing  after 
all  that  a  singer  should  bestow  so  much  considera 
tion  on  the  purely  mechanical  side  of  his  art. 
Leander  was  right,  he  was  surely  right,  in  saying 
that  if  he  planned  the  vocal  effects  artistically — 
that  was  to  say,  with  a  view  to  their  public  results, 
their  stimulus  to  an  audience — the  great  scenes  of 
an  opera  would  carry  across  the  footlights  and 
the  composer's  aims  would  be  achieved. 

But — oh,  she  could  not  bear  the  notion  that 
Leander  was  doing  it  all  without  any  thought  for 
anything  save  his  own  public  success.  It  was 
too  hard  to  believe  that,  but  she  could  not  es 
cape  the  conviction  that  there  was  nothing  mor>e. 
It  was  all  for  personal  glory,  for  self, 
self,  self! 

When  she  had  confessed  that  to  her  own  inner 
most  soul,  she  sprang  up  from  her  chair  and  ran 
across  the  room  aimlessly,  as  if  seeking  some  way 


io4         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

of  escape  from  the  dark  thing  which  was  standing 
so  menacingly  in  front  of  her. 

Self!  The  glory  and  the  worship  of  self! 
His  personal  success  the  only  thing  to  be  sought; 
his  instructions  to  be  her  gospel  of  art;  and — 
he  whimpered  that  she  misunderstood  him! 
Great  Heaven !  The  trouble  was  that  she  under 
stood  too  much.  "  Misunderstood !  "  The  piti 
ful  cry  of  the  weak  man.  She  knew  that,  even 
she,  for  she  had  seen  weak  people  in  her  life. 
And  it  was  the  weakness  of  selfishness. 

And  what  did  it  all  signify  for  her?  That  he 
wished  her  to  join  the  sheeplike  herd  of  his  adu 
lators,  to  lie  at  his  feet  and  adore  his  majesty, 
to  make  him  an  idol  and  offer  him  a  worship 
which  he  would  accept  as  his  just  due?  No,  it 
could  not  mean  so  much  as  that.  Her  dreams  of 
a  great  and  perfect  love  in  the  union  of  two  souls 
made  not  of  the  common  order  could  not  fall  to 
such  a  miserable  wreck  as  that.  Leander  was 
right.  She  misunderstood  him.  She  must  learn 
to  regard  it  all  from  his  point  of  view, — not  so 
poetic  as  hers,  perhaps,  but  true  and  therefore 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         105 

nearer  to  the  ideal.     Leander  loved  art  and  her 
more  than  himself,  of  course. 

And  then  she  sank  into  a  chair,  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  shook  with  a  furious  storm  of 
weeping. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

much  later  in  the  same  week  Philip 
Studley  was  accosted  by  Webster,  as  the 
two  walked  slowly  out  of  a  concert  hall,  where 
they  had  been  painfully  listening  to  the  demon 
stration  of  the  lamentable  incapacity  of  a  pianist 
recently  arrived  after  a  sensationally  successful 
tour  of  Australia. 

"  Let  us  go  and  smoke  a  strong  cigar  and  get 
the  taste  of  it  out  of  our  mouths,"  said  Webster. 

"  Thanks,"  replied  Philip  with  a  smile,  "if 
you'll  take  the  qualification  off  the  cigar  I'll  go 
with  pleasure." 

"  Smoke  a  cigarette,  if  you  like,  my  child." 

And  so  they  went  together  to  a  certain  educa 
tional  chop  house  where  learned  Thebans  of  the 
theater  and  the  lyric  hall  sometimes  assemble  to 
talk  of  their  great  professions.  Their  conversa 
tion  dwelt  not  at  all  on  the  poor  pianist  whom 

they  had  just  heard.     They  were  only  too  glad 

1 06 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          107 

to  forget  her.  They  soon  drifted  into  opera,  for 
through  the  half-curtained  window  they  could  see 
the  ugly  walls  of  the  yellow  temple  of  lyric  art. 
Philip's  youthful  enthusiasms  interested  and 
touched  the  "  General."  He  listened  reflectively 
while  the  younger  critic  aired  some  of  his  views 
about  the  distinguished  artists  who  excited  audi 
ences  in  the  theater  across  the  street.  How  sad 
it  all  seemed  to  the  elder  man  that  the  whole 
thing  should  be  so  hollow.  What  a  pity  that  a 
fresh  and  virile  young  soul  should  waste  its 
splendor  on  such  worthless  things.  He  shook  his 
head  slowly  till  Philip  asked  him  why  he  was  do 
ing  it. 

"  Well,"  said  the  General,  "  I  hate  to  destroy 
illusions,  but  these  so-called  artists  are  pretty 
much  all  alike." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  asked  Philip, 
who  had  for  some  time  been  convinced  that  Web 
ster  was  soured  by  his  own  want  of  recognition 
in  foreign  musical  centers.  Certain  Berlin  papers, 
for  example,  had  referred  contemptuously  to  what 
they  called  the  "  dilettante  criticism  "  of  Amer- 


io8         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

ica,  and  this  had  caused  the  General  to  go  out 
into  a  corridor  of  the  opera  house  and  lash  him 
self  into  a  fury.  Philip  recalled  that  and  similar 
incidents  and  he  feared  that  Webster's  dicta  were 
not  always  free  from  bias. 

u  Well,"  said  the  General,  "  you  keep  yourself 
unspotted  from  the  world,  my  son.  You  have 
done  so  without  difficulty  so  far,  and  you  will  have 
to  do  so  now,  even  if  it  is  not  so  easy.  I  know 
that  you  are  a  friend  of  Baroni's  wife  and  it  is  go 
ing  to  be  hard  for  you  to  avoid  being  drawn  into 
the  opera  crowd.  But  keep  away  from  them  as 
much  as  you  can.  They  are  no  better  than  a  lot 
of  cattle." 

"  You  don't  mean  that,"  replied  Philip,  smiling. 

"Don't  I?"  demanded  Webster  somewhat 
warmly;  "  wait  and  see.  The  opera  singer  is  first, 
last,  and  all  the  time  for  himself.  His  own  public 
success  and  the  increase  of  his  salary  are  his  ob 
jects  in  life." 

"  Don't  you  think  Baroni  is  a  real  artist?  " 

"  As  real  as  any  of  them.  Baroni  values 
Gounod,  for  example,  just  as  far  as  Gounod  fits 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          109 

Baroni  and  helps  him  to  become  famous,  and  not 
one  bit  further.  He  studies  his  roles  earnestly — 
in  order  to  make  as  big  a  success  as  possible  for 
Baroni.  That's  all  he  thinks  about.  Don't  delude 
yourself  into  the  belief  that  he  or  any  of  the  rest 
of  them  care  anything  for  the  great  art  of  music. 
Did  you  ever  see  Baroni  sit  through  a  Brahms 
symphony  or  a  concert  of  the  Kneisel  Quartet?  " 

Philip  started.  He  certainly  never  had  seen 
the  tenor  at  a  Kneisel  concert;  but — yes — he  re 
membered  now  he  had  once  discovered  him  in  a 
box  at  a  Philharmonic,  and  so  he  told  Webster. 

;'  Wlio  was  the  soloist  at  that  concert?  "  asked 
the  Old  Man. 

Philip  searched  his  memory. 

"  Freiburg,  the  German  tenor,"  he  answered. 

"Exactly;  the  other  tenor!"  exclaimed  the 
General  sardonically.  And  Philip  understood. 
He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he  said 
to  Webster : 

u  I  have  already  become  acquainted  through 
them  with  one  of  the  sopranos  of  the  company — 
Mile.  Bosanska." 


no         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Webster  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair  and  laid 
a  firm  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  young  confrere. 

"  My  boy/'  he  said,  "  shun  the  women  as  you 
would  the  devil.  So  far  as  we  of  the  critical  fra 
ternity  are  concerned  every  one  of  them  is  a  vam 
pire — a  rag,  and  a  bone,  and  a  hank  of  hair — 
and  she  never  can  understand." 

'  They  cannot  all  be  like  that,"  answered 
Philip. 

'*  Those  who  are  not  will  none  the  less  en 
deavor  to  make  a  fool  of  you.  Remember  that 
no  one  in  the  musical  profession  has  any  other 
use  for  you  than  one,  namely,  to  get  you  to  write 
praise  in  your  paper." 

Philip  smiled  again.  He  hoped  he  would  not 
be  so  soured  when  he  had  spent  twenty-five  years 
in  the  business  of  writing  music  criticism.  At 
present  he  felt  very  human  and  he  believed  that 
musicians  were  just  as  human  as  himself.  He  had 
faith  in  the  best  of  them.  He  was  willing  to 
believe  that  the  little  ones  were  all  self-seekers, 
and  that  they  had  no  true  artistic  ideals,  but  he 
was  sure  that  the  great  masters  and  mistresses  of 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          in 

art  who  made  Siegfried  and  Tristan  and  Briinn- 
hilde  and  Isolde  and  Armide  and  Orfeo  live  on 
the  mimic  stage  were  reverent  worshipers  before 
the  altar  of  aesthetic  beauty.  So  he  smiled  some 
what  indulgently  as  he  rose  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  Webster  read  his  thoughts  and  sighed. 
He  had  been  through  it  all,  and  he  knew. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Philip  said;  "but  I've  promised 
to  drop  in  at  Mrs.  Manners'  at  home." 

"Oh,  Heaven  help  us!"  exclaimed  the  Gen 
eral.  "  You  too,  Brutus!  Can't  you  keep  away? 
That  woman  is  the  demon  ex  machina  of  the 
musical  world.  If  you  go  to  her  house,  you'll 
meet  every  professional  musician  whom  you  do 
not  wish  to  meet,  especially  the  vampires." 

"  The  vampires?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Women  like  Mrs.  Manners 
receive  them  in  their  homes,  these  creatures,  IJttle 
better  than  the  shadows  who  prowl  the  great 
white  way  at  night.  They  invite  them  to  luncheon 
and  dinner  and  get  decent  women  to  come  and 
be  introduced  to  them  and  all  because  they  are 
opera  singers.  If  the  same  women  were  engaged 


ii2         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

in  any  other  line  of  business,  Mrs.  Manners  and 
her  kind  would  draw  their  skirts  together  when 
passing  them  for  fear  of  getting  soiled." 

Webster  panted  in  his  indignation  and  strode 
away,  shaking  his  head  mournfully,  as  one  who 
sees  his  friend  taking  a  glass  more  than  is  good 
for  him.  And  Philip  went  to  Mrs.  Manners' 
house.  He  had  never  known  her  intimately,  but 
in  the  present  season  he  had  met  her  often  at 
rehearsals  and  in  the  concert  hall  and  she  had 
seemed  to  make  a  point  of  pushing  the  acquaint 
ance.  She  was  always  at  home  on  Thursday 
afternoons,  she  had  told  him,  and  he  had  prom 
ised  to  go.  He  had  neglected  to  do  so,  and  had 
been  duly  upbraided  and  had  neglected  some  more 
and  been  upbraided  some  more  till  now  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  altogether  too  rude  to  delay  the 
matter  any  longer.  So  with  the  melancholy  words 
of  the  General  still  lingering  in  his  ears,  he  en 
tered  Mrs.  Manners'  drawing-room. 

You  climbed  a  flight  of  rather  chillingly  im 
portant  stairs  to  reach  this  drawing-room  and 
all  the  way  up  a  grim  marble  statue  of  Verdi,  ex- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          113 

ecuted  by  a  German  who  adored  Bruckner,  glared 
down  upon  you  from  an  icy  niche  in  a  white  wall. 
But  when  you  had  accomplished  the  ascent,  you 
found  yourself  in  a  curious  labyrinth  of  rooms, 
all  more  than  half  dark,  and  with  the  darkness 
accentuated  by  tiny  rose-shaded  Eastern  lamps 
burning  in  the  most  unexpected  places  and  casting 
the  most  distracting  shadows.  You  also  became 
conscious  of  an  olfactory  irritation,  slight,  but 
none  the  less  perceptible,  caused  by  thin,  acrid 
smoke  issuing  from  the  tops  of  these  same  lamps. 
Incense  of  some  sort  or  other  it  was,  and  you 
easily  persuaded  yourself  that  Mrs.  Manners 
burned  it  before  her  musical  gods  who  came  to 
visit  her  on  her  at  home  days. 

Three  rooms  ranged  through  the  floor,  but  the 
cunning  distribution  of  doors  and  mirrors  pro 
duced  an  illusion  of  innumerable  apartments  open- 

> 

ing  into  ever  further  and  further  remote  regions. 
And  heavy  portieres,  more  little  lamps,  and 
myriads  more  of  distracting  shadows  heightened 
the  effect.  Furthermore  you  could  not  discern  the 
lineaments  of  any  one  seated  in  the  drawing-room, 


n4         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

which  was  really  the  second  of  the  three,  for  the 
lights  and  shadows  made  sight  most  uncertain. 
So  that  when  you  suddenly  heard  the  thin  voice 
of  Mrs.  Manners  cutting  the  air  close  to  your  ear 
and  looked  around  to  discover  that  she  was  not 
what  you  had  just  taken  for  another  shadow,  you 
experienced  a  delightful  little  shock,  which  was 
precisely  what  she  wished  you  to  experience. 
Philip  went  through  it  all,  and  was  somewhat 
amused  when  he  heard  her  saying  to  his  left  ear: 

"  Mr.  Studley,  this  is  just  too  sweet  of  you. 
Come  right  over  here  and  be  introduced  to  the 
greatest  woman  in  the  world." 

He  was  literally  dragged  toward  a  broad  heavy 
shadow,  which  presently  turned  out  to  be  a  sofa, 
and  out  of  this  wide  area  of  gloom  issued  a  liquid 
voice,  which  said: 

"  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  present  Mr.  Studley; 
he  and  I  are  already  acquainted." 

Philip  had  not  the  faintest  idea  who  was  speak 
ing,  but  he  composedly  sat  down  beside  the  up 
right  part  of  the  shadow,  which  presently  turned 
its  head  so  as  to  permit  one  of  the  little  lamps 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         115 

to  cast  a  dim  ray  upon  it,  and  he  perceived  that 
he  was  gazing  into  the  green  eyes  of  Nagy  Bo- 
sanska.  And  for  the  moment,  with  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  Oriental  lamp  wavering  in  their  lumi 
nous  depths,  they  made  him  think  of  cruel  and 
treacherous  green  waters  rushing  over  quicksands. 

"  I  am  sure  you  remember  that  we  met  Mrs. 
Baroni,  you  and  I,  at  the  same  time,  at  a  rehearsal 
months  ago,"  she  said  in  her  strangely  sensuous 
voice. 

"  Mrs.  Baroni  and  I  made  your  acquaintance. 
She  and  I  are  old  friends.  Indeed  I  have  known 
her  even  longer  than  he  has." 

"  She  has  the  grand  air,"  said  Nagy  musingly, 
as  she  let  her  sloe-black  lashes  mask  her  eyes  for 
a  moment;  "  and  Baroni — he  has  no  air  at  all. 
He  is  a  great  baby.  I  wonder  why  she  took  him. 
But  one  cannot  understand  love.  It  is  royalv  a 
master,  not  to  be  questioned — is  it  not  so?  " 

And  the  sloe-black  lashes  rose  slowly,  showing 
the  green  depths  aflame  with  baleful  fires.  For  a 
moment  some  strange  thing  stirred  far  down  in 
the  secret  lair  of  Philip's  soul,  something  he  had 


n6         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

never  felt  before,  something  that  burned  within 
him  like  an  inward  blush  and  at  the  same  moment 
stung  like  the  sudden  lash  of  a  whip.  He 
wrenched  his  eyes  away  from  those  of  the  woman 
with  an  effort  and  gripped  himself  well  before  he 
answered : 

"  I  am  not  able  to  qualify  as  an  expert,  made 
moiselle.  I  have  had  no  experience." 

Nagy  Bosanska's  eyes  half  closed  again  and  she 
gave  a  little  faint  sigh. 

"  No  experience !  You  have  not  yet  lived;  you 
are  still  asleep  in  the  cradle  of  life.  When  will 
you  wake  up,  I  wonder?  " 

Philip  did  not  answer;  he  merely  smiled. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  Nagy,  leaning  forward 
till  her  face  was  close  to  his  and  he  could  feel 
the  faint  sensuous  warmth  of  her  breath  upon  his 
cheek,  "  you  smile  in  your  sleep,  but  you  will 
weep  when  you  are  awakened.  I,  Nagy  Bo- 
sanska,  tell  you  this,  and  it  is  true." 

And  again  Philip  smiled,  for  he  remembered 
what  Baroni  had  told  him;  she  was  a  gipsy  and 
she  had  to  play  up  to  the  role.  But  nevertheless 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         117 

there  was  something  about  the  woman  that 
troubled  him.  He  had  always  been  free  from 
the  seduction  of  the  senses.  Women  had  always 
appealed  to  him  with  potent  spell,  but  his  high 
idealism  had  kept  him  clean.  Nagy  Bosanska, 
however,  had  moved  something  within  him  that 
was  beyond  his  understanding. 

And  while  he  was  -still  wondering  he  heard 
Mrs.  Manners  at  the  entrance  to  the  room  ex 
claiming: 

"  I  knew  you  would  take  pity  on  us  some  day, 
and  to  think  that  it  should  be  this,  of  all  days!  " 

A  moment  later  she  came  up  to  Nagy  and 
Philip,  triumphantly  leading  Baroni.  The  tenor 
and  the  newspaper  man  shook  hands  rather  for 
mally,  and  the  latter  said: 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  wife  at 
home  not  long  ago." 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  of  your  being  there  and  I'm 
sorry  to  have  missed  you." 

Nagy  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
wicked  little  gleam  in  her  wonderful  eyes.  Life 
for  her  was  a  perpetual  turmoil  of  tangled  sex 


n8         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

relations,  and  she  suspected  at  once  that  the  critic 
and  the  tenor's  wife — what?  She  did  not  know, 
but  she  had  to  suspect  because  an  inscrutable 
Providence  had  created  her  that  way.  She  never 
ended  with  mere  suspicion,  for  with  her  certain 
knowledge  was  bound  to  come.  She  had  a  pro 
found  insight  into  human  nature,  that  insight 
which  has  so  often  enabled  her  race  to  look  into 
the  faces  of  men  and  women  and  so  measure  their 
characters  as  to  make  prophecies  not  far  amiss. 
Sooner  or  later  she  was  sure  to  know  Philip's  real 
feelings  for  Helen,  and  to  respect  him  for  them. 
But  just  now  she  counted  it  her  time  to  watch. 
So  she  said  little,  but  she  listened,  and  meanwhile 
she  was  deeply  considering  Baroni. 

She  was  certain — she  did  not  suspect — that  life 
was  to  him  yet  an  uncut  volume.  He  had  looked 
at  the  attractive  binding  and  had  peeped  at  the 
title  page.  Yes,  he  had  even  glanced  at  the 
preface.  Some  day  he  would  begin  to  cut  the 
leaves  and  read.  Then  he  would  discover  him 
self  and — yes — he  might  be  very  well  worth 
while.  But  would  the  patrician  wife  ever  find  that 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         119 

out?  Pah!  How  could  she,  that  puritanical 
American  woman?  What  a  pity  he  had  not  loved 
her — Nagy !  What  a  revelation  of  life  she  would 
have  made  him.  But — would  he  really  be  worth 
while? 

"  What?  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  answer 
ing  at  random  a  remark  of  Mrs.  Manners.  "  I 
must  go  on — that  is  what  you  say  here,  isn't  it? 
Will  you  ride  up  with  me  in  my  car,  Baroni?  " 

Philip  had  just  invited  the  tenor  to  go  to  his 
club  with  him,  and  Baroni  had  not  answered. 
Now  the  tenor  smiled  at  him  apologetically  and 
said  to  Nagy: 

"  I  suppose  if  I  decline  the  first  invitation  you 
have  ever  given  me,  you'll  spoil  our  next  scene 
together." 

And  so  Nagy  carried  him  off  in  her  triumphal 
chariot. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"QHALL  I  take  you  home?  "  asked  Nagy. 

^        "  Um-m-m — well,    no,    I    don't    think    I 
shall  go  just  yet.     I  want  to  stop  at  the— 

Nagy  interrupted  him  with  a  ripple  of  laughter. 
The  laugh  of  Nagy  Bosanska  was  more  wonderful 
than  many  fountains.  Sometimes  it  showered 
flashing  streams  of  silvery  staccati,  and  then  it 
was  as  if  one  heard  a  scale  of  detached  notes  on 
a  flute.  Sometimes  it  flowed  downward  in  a  swift 
chromatic  torrent,  like  a  scale  of  semitones  in  the 
high  positions  of  the  A  string  of  a  'cello.  And  if 
ten  other  descriptions  of  it  were  written,  no  one 
would  have  more  than  a  shadow  of  knowledge, 
for  it  was  ever  different.  This  time  Nagy  rippled 
and  that  ripple  was  like  the  Waldweben  in  "  Sieg 
fried  " — or  the  bubbling  of  water  on  the  lips  of 
a  drowning  man.  One  could  never  be  perfectly 
certain  whether  it  was  tragedy  or  comedy  with 


120 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         121 

Nagy.  Upon  Leander  all  was  quite  lost.  Noth 
ing  had  any  special  significance  to  him.  He  was 
so  utterly  American.  He  had  no  more  imagina 
tion  than  a  stock  broker.  And  yet  there  was 
something  in  him,  something  which  had  never  be 
come  an  active  force.  And  doubtless  it  was  this 
which  caused  the  wise  Nagy  to  say  that  he  was  a 
great  baby  and  was  not  yet  awake.  So  when  she 
had  interrupted  him  with  her  incomprehensible 
laughter,  she  said: 

'  You  don't  want  to  go  home,  and  the  first  year 
of  your  married  bliss  is  not  yet  finished!  " 

"  Oh,  cut  that  out,  Nagy.  You  know  nothing 
about  it  and  it  is  not  for  you  to  discuss." 

'  You  are  right,  my  friend,"  she  said  with  a 
sudden  and  wonderful  softness  in  her  voice. 
"  She  is  very  beautiful  and  you  are  a  very  happy 
man." 

Leander  swallowed  the  words  with  difficulty. 
Of  course  Helen  was  very  beautiful,  but  he  did 
not  relish  hearing  Nagy  comment  upon  her. 
However,  he  answered  heartily: 

"  Now  you're  talking  sense,  Nagy." 


122         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

*  Yes,  sometimes  I  feel  quite  sensible  and  it 
interests  me.  I  am  always  ravished  with  novelty. 
But  after  all,  since  you  are  not  in  a  hurry  to  go 
home  and  you  do  not  know  just  where  else  to  go, 
why  do  you  not  come  and  pass  a  few  minutes  at 
my  little  retreat?  It  is  most  quiet  there  and  the 
old  Melanie,  my  companion,  will  be  overjoyed. 
She  is  of  your  adorers." 

Entrancing,  inexhaustible  Nagy!  There  was 
in  this  speech  a  naivete,  a  childish  simplicity  which 
came  as  balm  to  the  inflamed  sensibilities  of  the 
tenor.  He  saw  himself  relaxing  in  body  and  spirit 
in  the  bower  of  this  adorable  exotic.  He  leaped 
instinctively  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be 
restful  there.  How  restful  Nagy  herself  was  at 
this  instant;  how  soft,  how  gentle,  how  soothing. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  drew  a  quick  breath,  and 
said: 

"  Can't  say  I'm  eager  about  your  companion, 
Nagy;  but  it  does  sound  inviting." 

And  so  he  went.  He  had  begun  to  have  a 
lively  curiosity  about  Nagy.  Hitherto  she  had 
been  to  him  only  a  brilliant  apparition  of  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         123 

theater  and  he  had  delighted  in  singing  with  her 
because  her  style  was  so  aflame  with  dramatic 
modulations,  so  elastic,  so  subtle,  and  so  magnetic 
that  she  helped  him  to  make  successes.  He  had 
sometimes  been  a  little  jealous  of  her  effect  on 
audiences,  but  not  for  long.  He  realized  that  she 
was  a  splendid  foil  for  him  and  that  her  methods 
made  his  own  stand  out  more  clearly.  But  now 
he  was  slowly  developing  an  interest  in  the  per 
sonality  of  the  woman.  He  had  never  before 
been  in  Nagy's  apartment  and  he  walked  around, 
studying  it,  while  Nagy  threw  off  her  wraps  and 
sank  into  a  deep  chair,  from  which  she  regarded 
him  with  an  expression  for  her  unusually 
thoughtful. 

You  might  have  known  Nagy  a  lifetime  and 
never  have  guessed  how  she  would  furnish  a  dwell 
ing.  Her  flat  was  one  of  those  large,  airy,  light 

* 

ones  which  exist  in  some  parts  of  New  York. 
Nagy  did  not  love  too  much  light  and  she  had 
draped  her  windows  with  heavy  curtains  of  a  rich 
ruby  red,  too  dark  and  opulent  in  tone  to  be  ag 
gressive.  The  walls  of  the  drawing-room  were 


124         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

covered  with  a  figured  brocade  of  the  same  tint 
as  that  of  the  curtains.  The  floor  was  in  dark 
wood  and  the  rugs  were  all  in  deep  velvety  shades. 
There  were  few  pictures — a  copy  of  Franz  Hals' 
"  Hille  Robbe,"  with  the  wicked  owl  perched  upon 
her  shoulder,  an  etching  after  Lucas  van  Ley- 
den's  "  Eulenspiegel,"  and  a  remarkably  well- 
executed  copy  of  Couture's  "  Les  Remains  de  la 
Decadence,"  small,  but  faithful  in  spirit  and  color. 
These  were  the  chief  pieces.  There  were  some 
smaller  things,  photographs  and  one  or  two  prints, 
including  a  sepia  view  of  the  interior  of  the 
Church  of  Our  Lady  at  Treves.  It  was  a  strange 
and  incongruous  mixture,  like  Nagy  herself. 
There  were  no  flowers  in  the  room.  Nagy  al 
ways  threw  them  away  as  fast  as  she  received 
them.  But  on  a  table  in  a  corner  stood  a  Hun 
garian  cembalon.  Mme.  Melanie  could  have  told 
Leander  that  when  Nagy  was  in  a  harsh  mood 
she  could  hammer  out  the  most  blood-curdling 
music  from  the  jangling  wires. 

;'  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Nagy,  "  how  do  you 
like  it?" 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         125 

"  It's  fine,"  answered  Leander;  "  so  restful  and 
quiet." 

And  he  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  sighed. 

"Cigarette?"  murmured  Nagy,  holding  out 
her  little  gold  case. 

Leander  took  one.  Nagy  lighted  her  own  and 
then  leaned  forward  to  let  him  take  a  light  from 
it  while  she  still  held  it  in  her  lips.  The  tenor 
accepted  the  Promethean  gift,  and  they  both 
smiled  with  a  touch  of  amusement  as  they 
leaned  back  after  the  feat  had  been  accom 
plished. 

"  Funny  you  and  I  have  never  been  better  ac 
quainted,  Nagy,"  said  Leander;  "for  although 
we  talk  familiarly  and  treat  one  another  with  the 
imitation  of  intimacy  that  one  finds  in  an  opera 
house,  we  don't  know  one  another  particularly 
well,  do  we?  " 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Baroni.  I  know  both 
you  and  me.  You  will  perhaps  one  day  know 
you,  but  you  will  never  know  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  think  I  don't 
know  myself  now?  " 


126         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Not  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world,  my  dear 
boy." 

'  Well,  how  am  I  going  to  become  ac 
quainted?  "  asked  Leander  with  an  indulgent 
smile. 

'*  Through — love,"  slowly  answered  Nagy. 

Leander  was  silent,  and  presently  Nagy  con 
tinued  : 

"  But  it  is  very  well;  you  have  begun  rightly. 
You  have  found  the  beautiful,  proud  woman, 
made  her  your  wife,  and  she  will  educate  you  in 
love,  and  thus  you  will  come  to  be  as  wise  as  a 
god." 

'  Yes,  I  see,"  commented  Leander  as  he  slowly 
blew  thin  smoke  from  his  lips.  He  fell  into  a 
silence.  He  forgot  that  he  was  in  Nagy's  pres 
ence.  His  mind  was  retracing  certain  steps  in 
the  past  and  finding  them  not  what  he  now  wished 
that  they  had  been.  And  Nagy  smoked  her  ciga 
rette,  said  no  word,  and  watched  him  through  the 
fringes  of  her  eyes.  She  was  beginning  to  believe 
that  he  might  be  worth  while.  And  she  could 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          127 

not  drive  out  of  her  mind  a  suspicion  that  his 
senses  and  his  soul  had  neither  one  been  yet 
touched  by  the  woman  whom  he  had  married. 
She  was  certain  that  he  had  something  worth 
stirring.  She  would  interest  herself  by  indulging 
in  experiment.  She  glided  over  to  the  piano 
which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  before 
Leander  was  aware  that  she  had  seated  herself 
she  began  to  play  a  strange,  weird  Oriental  melody 
such  as  he  had  never  heard.  He  turned  and 
listened  attentively,  and  suddenly  she  modulated 
and  swept  into  the  accompaniment  of  a  song. 

"  'Guschi  ki  behakk  bazi  biiwed  der  herne  dschai, 
Belli  jari,  belli  dost  jari  dschani  men  wai.'  ' 

And  there  was  not  a  little  more  of  the  queer 
sliding  melody  of  melting  intervals  and  oily 

scales.     Leander,  understanding  nothing  yet,  felt 

> 
strange  waves  running  through  all  his  sense.     It 

was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  thrust  into  the 
depths  of  a  fragrant  tropical  garden.  He  drew 
a  quick  breath,  looked  swiftly  at  Nagy,  and  said 
in  a  strained  tone: 


128         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Nagy,  what  is  that,  and 
what  does  it  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  Persian  folk  song,"  she  answered 
lightly.  Then  flashing  into  a  half-serious  man 
ner,  she  added:  "As  for  the  meaning,  it  is  in 
effect  this:  *  I  am  singing  here  alone.  Hear  me 
and  do  not  turn  away,  beloved  soul.'  ' 

Leander  smiled  one  of  his  familiar  indulgent 
smiles.  The  tension  which  had  temporarily  come 
upon  him  was  relieved  and  he  relaxed  all  over 
inside  and  out. 

"  Always  love  songs,  aren't  they,  Nagy?  I  sup 
pose  you  never  sing  a  song  with  a  moral  to  it, 
or  a  purely  fantastic  song,  eh?  I  sometimes  be 
lieve  that  you  never  think  of  anything  but  love. 
You  appear  to  have  an  idea  that  that  is  life." 

1  You  are  mistaken,  my  friend.  I  do  not  think 
about  it  always.  But  I  live  for  it  always.  It  is 
life,  or  at  any  rate  it  is  the  only  thing  worth  living 
for.  It  is  the  only  power  that  can  raise  life  above 
the  level  of  the  grimy  earth  and  make  it  truly 
great.  But  in  this  sordid  America  no  one  is  great. 
You  are  a  nation  of  hucksters.  You  see  nothing, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          129 

you  know  nothing,  you  feel  nothing.  You  have 
two  objects  in  existence,  the  pocket  and  the  stom 
ach.  The  one  is  for  the  other.  The  pocket — 
that  is  for  money.  The  money  is  to  buy  things 
for  the  stomach,  things  to  eat  and  to  drink.  Also 
to  go  to  the  things  for  the  stomach.  You  become 
rich.  What  do  you  do?  You  buy  an  automo 
bile.  Do  you  ride  in  it  through  dream-haunted 
valleys  and  heaven-storming  mountains,  that  you 
may  feed  great  your  souls  upon  the  spirit  of  the 
world?  No,  you  go  as  fast  as  the  car  can  fly 
to  some  famous  place  for  getting  things  for  the 
stomach.  You  eat,  you  drink,  and  your  soul  be 
comes  as  the  soul  of  a  pig.  That  is  your  pleasure. 
The  next  day  you  hasten  downtown  to  get  more 
dollars  to  buy  more  things  to  eat  and  drink.  And 
that  is  what  you  fancy  is  life,  for  it  is  your  life. 
But  you  are  all  dead,  dumb,  soulless.  You  know 

6 

nothing,  you  see  nothing.  This  beautiful  world, 
that  was  made  to  glorify  us,  is  lost,  wasted  on 
you.  Everything  that  is  great  and  noble  is 
crushed  here  into  the  mire.  Where  are  your 
poets,  your  painters,  your  sculptors,  your  great 


1 30         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

masters  of  music?  Parrots,  taught  in  Europe  to 
repeat  our  alphabets!  Children,  who  prattle  by 
rote!  Pah!  Fools!  And  what  are  your  women? 
Sheep,  bleating,  idle  sheep.  They  are  emanci 
pated  women  of  the  harem,  women  who  have  no 
souls.  Bon  Dieu!  What  a  nation!  The  men 
hagglers  for  more  dollars  and  the  women  over 
dressed  geese,  waiting  always  to  be  fed.  Not 
one  beautiful  thought  in  their  lazy  minds !  And 
then  you  smile  like  a  fool  at  me  and  say  that  I 
think  always  of  love.  Of  what  shall  a  real  woman 
think,  you  wooden  image?  Do  you  believe  that 
I,  Nagy  Bosanska,  an  eternal  spirit,  a  living,  burn 
ing,  throbbing  soul,  that  shakes  the  very  sky 
above  me,  that  I  shall  be  a  thing  of  the  pocket 
and  the  stomach,  like  an  American  odalisque? 
No,  I  live,  I  am!  I  vibrate  with  the  eternal  fires! 
I  am  an  immortal  poem,  a  deathless  song!  I  am 
all  that  was  and  all  that  shall  be.  I  am  the  holy 
temple  of  celestial  passion.  The  riddle  of  life 
is  open  to  me.  I  am  as  the  very  gods.  But  you 
— pish  I  Man,  you  are  a  marionette. " 

And  Nagy,   panting,   strode  across  the  room 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          131 

and  flung  herself  upon  the  keyboard  of  the  piano 
in  a  wild  torrent  of  exotic  harmonies  above  which 
she  suddenly  burst  once  more  into  song : 

"'  As  ich  wolt  gehat  adus  wus  ich  mein 
Wolt  ich  doch  gliklich  gewein; 
Mir  thut  doch  mein  harz  oisgehn 
Wen  ich  thu  dichdersehen.' ' 

As  the  last  line  of  the  quaint  Jewish  song  died 
slowly  away,  Nagy  turned  swiftly  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  while  her  exquisite  frame  shook 
with  a  thunderstorm  of  weeping. 

"  Now  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Nagy?  "  asked  Leander,  going  over  and  standing 
beside  her  in  a  rather  uncertain  attitude. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  sobbed;  "you  must  not 
give  to  me  any  attention.  It  will  pass.  No  one 
can  help  me.  I  think  no  one  understands  me. 
Do  you  know  how  dreadful  that  is?  " 

Leander  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  she 
furtively  watched  his  face  from  beneath  her 
drooping  lashes.  Presently  the  tenor  walked 
away  from  her  and  sank  again  into  a  deep  chair. 
He  seemed  to  forget  that  Nagy  was  in  the  room 


132         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

and  lost  himself  in  a  profound  reflection.  Nagy 
went  and  stood  beside  him.  She  looked  down  on 
him  with  an  inscrutable  expression.  There  was 
in  it  tenderness,  amusement,  contempt,  and  yearn 
ing.  Softly,  very  softly  she  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
splendid  bright  hair,  and,  as  he  did  not  move,  she 
stroked  the  silky  locks  caressingly,  as  a  mother 
might  stroke  those  of  her  child. 

'  Yes,"  she  said;  "  it  is  certain  that  I  am  - 
stupid.  I  forgot.  You  do  not  have  to  be  mis 
understood.  You  have  your  beautiful  wife  who 
sees  down  into  the  very  shrine  of  your  being  and 
understands  all  of  your  moods,  your  hopes,  your 
fears,  your  delicate  artistic  perceptions,  your 
music  soul.  Yes,  that  is  very  wonderful.  It  is 
always  more  wonderful  for  a  man  than  it  is  for 
a  woman.  A  woman  does  not  expect  to  be  un 
derstood  by  a  man;  it  is  impossible.  But  a  woman 
can  understand  the  man  she  loves.  He  has  no 
secrets  from  her.  His  soul  is  her  daily  scripture. 
She  reads  it,  she  drinks  it  in  with  every  thought. 
It  is  her  life  study.  It  becomes  her  soul.  Ah, 
that  is  the  glory  of  love." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          133 

Leander  sprang  up  from  the  chair,  throwing 
her  hand  rudely  from  his  hair. 

"Nagy,  I  will  not  listen,"  he  said;  "  be 
quiet." 

"  What  have  I  done?  Is  it  that  I  have  been 
familiar  with  the  sacredness  of  your  love?  But 
you  will  forgive  me  for  that,  for  I  am  only  your 
friend,  your  friend,  who  is  thinking  of  your  hap 
piness,  Baroni." 

Again  he  was  silent,  and  Nagy  ventured  to  take 
his  hand  in  hers. 

"  Or  shall  I  dare,"  she  continued,  "  to  fear 
that  it  is  not  perfect,  and  that  the  stately  queen 
does  not  see  all  the  way  into  the  soul  of  the  great 
artist?" 

"  Nagy,  be  silent,"  said  Leander  sternly. 
'  You  must  not  dare  to  question  me  about  my 
wife." 

"  It  is  true.  I  am  very  sorry.  Ah,  one  should 
not  expect  poetic  insight  from  an  American 
woman.  I  am  sorry.  But  fear  nothing.  I  shall 
bury  this  in  my  heart,  Baroni.  I  shall  not  speak 
of  it.  It  shall  be  our  own  little  secret,  which  we 


134         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

shall  not  breathe  even  to  each  other.  But  when 
you  are  weary  and  sad  and  need  to  be  understood, 
you  will  remember  that  Nagy  Bosanska  is  your 
friend,  will  you  not?  And  she  has  the  eternal 
woman  soul,  the  soul  of  the  world." 

She  leaned  against  him  and  he  felt  the  firm 
round  curves  of  her  beautiful  body  swelling 
through  the  slight  silken  gown,  and  the  dainty 
perfume  which  always  exhaled  from  her  rose  to  . 
his  nostrils  like  an  incense.  He  smiled  down  upon 
her  and  his  head  bent  slowly  as  if  drawn  by  an 
irresistible  force.  She  lifted  her  voluptuous  red 
lips,  which  were  slightly  parted  so  that  her  quick 
breathing  could  almost  be  seen.  Leander's  eyes 
darkened  with  a  look  of  the  wild  beast  that  dwells 
in  every  man,  and  he  gripped  her  with  his  arm. 
But  the  woman,  wise  as  a  serpent,  saw  that  the 
hour  had  not  yet  come.  She  had  touched  only 
the  outer  skin  of  his  grosser  sense.  At  the  very 
instant  when  it  seemed  as  if  their  lips  must  melt 
together  in  a  kiss,  she  drew  back  swiftly,  pressed 
a  hand  over  her  heart  in  an  expressive  gesture, 
and  said  in  a  barely  audible  voice: 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          135 

"  You  will  come  to  see  me  again — when  the 
world  seems  dull  to  you — and  I  shall  try  to  make 
you  forget,  shall  I  not?  " 

Leander  shook  himself  as  if  he  found  dust  upon 
his  garments.  Forget?  That  was  the  one  thing 
he  must  not  do.  He  must  remember  every  minute 
that  he  was  the  husband  of  a  good  and  true 
woman,  who  unfortunately  cherished  utterly  false 
ideals  about  his  profession. 

"  No — yes — no;  I  suppose  so.  It's  getting  to 
ward  dinner  time,  Nagy,  and  I  must  be  getting 
home." 

"  Home!  Yes,  that  is  the  right  place  for  you, 
Baroni.  But  I  shall  see  you  here  again  some  time. 
I  am  sure  of  it." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  kissed  quite 
formally,  and  he  departed.  As  soon  as  he  was 
gone,  she  called  her  companion. 

"  Melanie,"  she  said;  "  I  shall  dine  out.  You 
can  do  as  you  please  or  go  to  the  devil.  Tele 
phone  at  once  to  Comparelli  that  I  shall  expect 
him  here  in  half  an  hour  to  take  me  to  dinner." 

And  when  Melanie  had  gone  to  obey  the  com- 


136         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

mands  Nagy  remained  standing  thoughtfully  be 
side  the  piano  and  singing  in  an  undertone: 

"  '  Si  tu  ne  m'aimes  pas,  je  t'aime; 
Si  je  t'aime,  prends  garde  a  toi. '  ' 

Wise,  far-seeing  Nagy!     But  she  did  not  see 
to  the  borders  of  all  things. 


CHAPTER  X 

f"T"^HE  spell  of  Nagy  had  fallen  upon  the  tenor, 
-*•  and  he  knew  it  not.  He  believed  that  he 
had  walked  out  of  its  magic  circle  when  he  had 
left  her  apartment.  And  it  was  creeping  behind 
him  like  his  own  shadow.  And  there  was  another 
man  upon  whom  it  had  fallen,  a  man  whom  Nagy 
herself  had  forgotten  when  her  eyes  were  drawn 
to  the  tenor,  but  whom  she  would  presently  re 
member. 

****** 

Philip  Studley  was  uneasy  in  his  mind.  He 
strode  up  and  down  his  room  and  smoked  vi 
ciously.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  himself,  for 
suddenly  he  realized  that  he  had  conceived  a  sin 
gularly  active  curiosity  about  a  prima  donna.  He 
had  fallen  to  trying  to  analyze  Nagy  Bosanska 
and  had  discovered  that  his  methods  were  inade 
quate.  There  was  more  material  for  analysis  than 

he  knew  how  to  handle.    He  turned  his  examina- 

137 


i38          THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

tion  inward.  He  became  introspective  and  then 
he  was  quite  as  much  in  the  dark  as  he  was  before. 
He  found  himself  crowded  with  conflicting  feel 
ings.  He  knew  that  it  was  all  wrong  for  him 
to  think  about  a  prima  donna  at  all.  That  con 
viction  stood  out  with  perfect  distinctness.  But 
right  beside  it  stood  another,  namely  that  he 
desired  to  think  about  her  very  much. 

Then  he  pondered  on  the  wise  words  of  Web 
ster.  How  much  did  the  General  really  know? 
All  the  "  boys  "  said  that  Webster  never  went 
near  a  woman.  It  was  whispered  that  a  very 
beautiful  and  interesting  prima  donna  had  once 
followed  him  halfway  across  Europe  only  to  be 
compelled  in  the  end  to  say  to  him,  "  You're  a 
Parsifal."  Philip  was  well  aware  that  he  himself 
was  no  Parsifal,  but  neither  was  he  a  Klingsor. 

Why  could  he  not  interest  himself  in  the  ex 
citing  phenomenon  called  Nagy  Bosanska  without 
getting  into  difficulties?  Besides,  had  he  any 
reason  to  flatter  himself  that  the  prima  donna 
would  be  especially  interested  in  him?  Oh,  yes, 
he  was  a  critic,  to  be  sure,  and  the  General  had 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          139 

declared  that  so  far  as  the  guild  was  concerned 
all  the  prima  donnas  were  vampires.  But  Philip 
was  morally  certain  that  no  vampire  could  get 
anything  from  him.  He  was  sure  that  he  was 
unapproachable.  His  three  gears'  experience  had 
seemed  so  large  to  him !  Anyhow,  he  decided  that 
he  would  go  down  to  the  opera  house  and  listen  to 
some  of  a  rehearsal  of  "  Manon  Lescaut."  It 
was  not  at  all  likely  that  she  would  be  there,  of 
course,  as  she  was  not  in  the  cast  of  Puccini's 
opera.  And  so  he  walked  into  the  almost  im 
penetrable  gloom  of  the  auditorium  and  sat  down 
in  a  quiet  corner. 

The  usual  lot  was  there,  with  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners  in  the  foreground.  The  rehearsal  was 
more  uninteresting  than  such  things  commonly 
were,  for  the  reason  that  none  of  the  singers  was 
trying  to  do  anything  more  than  indicate  "the 
music,  and  the  conductor,  Comparelli,  was  in  a 
bad  humor;  which  caused  him  to  stop  the  orchestra 
every  two  or  three  minutes  and  deliver  an  angry 
lecture  in  swift  Italian.  There  was  no  reason — 
except  Comparelli — why  Nagy  Bosanska  should 


1 40         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

have  been  present  at  this  rehearsal,  and  even 
Comparelli  was  no  longer  a  strong  reason.  Her 
friendship  with  him  was  overripe.  His  conceit 
had  wearied  her.  She  would  soon  cast  him  off, 
that  was  certain. 

She  had  been  swept  off  her  feet  at  first  by  his 
masterful  conducting.  She  had  once  more 
dreamed  her  beautiful  dream,  that  she  had  found 
a  man  who  would  fill  her  life.  But  this  was  what 
Nagy  was  always  seeking  and  had  never  found. 
She  drained  the  wine  from  ordinary  souls  in  a 
few  draughts,  and  went  onward,  ever  onward, 
consumed  by  a  fierce  thirst.  No  man  who  walked 
upon  life's  common  levels  could  be  her  mate.  But 
she  herself  was  as  boundless  as  the  sea  and  as 
inexhasutible  as  space.  She  was  a  measureless 
giver  and  men  fought  for  her  gifts,  but  usually 
in  vain.  She  gave  only  where  she  fancied  she 
saw  her  happiness,  and  she  was  still  wandering  in 
pursuit  of  her  vision. 

However,  she  was  in  the  theater,  and  her  keen 
eyes  discovered  the  young  man  sitting  in  his  quiet 
corner.  Presently  she  glided  noiselessly  into  a 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          141 

seat  behind  him  and  when  the  first  act  was  ended 
leaned  forward  and  breathed  upon  his  cheek. 
There  was  something  sinister  in  that  breathing  of 
Nagy  Bosanska.  A  score  of  women  might  let 
a  man  feel  their  breath  on  his  face  without  stir 
ring  his  pulse.  But  when  Nagy  did  that  the 
primal  man  of  Rodin  rose  up  in  pride  and  force. 
It  felt  like  a  voluptuous  caress.  The  actual  touch 
of  the  woman's  lips  could  not  have  done  more, 
and,  being  less  subtle,  might  have  done  less. 
Philip  was  about  to  turn,  when  she  murmured 
with  her  mouth  close  to  his  ear: 

"  Since  I  first  met  you  I  have  thought  some 
times  that  I  was  sorry  that  I  had." 

"  Really?  "  said  Philip,  freed  at  once  from  the 
strange  influence  of  that  breathed  caress;  "  I  am 
sure  I  know  of  no  reason  why  you  should  think 
of  the  matter  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  have  found  reasons." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Philip,  politely  responding 
to  her  plain  indication  that  she  wished  to  be 
asked,  "  you  would  not  mind  telling  me  one  of 
them." 


1 42         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Since  I  met  you  I  have  much  wished  to  be 
friends  with  you." 

"  And  is  that  a  reason  for  wishing  that  you 
had  not  met  me?  " 

*  Yes,  for  if  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you,  you 
will  believe  it  is  because  I  wish  you  to  write  flat 
tery  of  me  in  your  paper." 

"  And  you,  of  course,  wish  to  stand  entirely 
on  your  merits." 

"  Of  a  certainty.  Would  not  you,  if  you  were 
a  singer?  " 

u  Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure.  I've  been  told  that 
prima  donnas  desire  unending  praise.  They  think 
it  fools  the  public;  but  it  does  not." 

"  I  do  not  fool  the  public;  I  conquer  it.  If  my 
best  is  not  good  enough,  I  make  it  better.  Is  not 
that  what  I  should  do?  " 

1  Yes,  but  that  is  not  the  usual  course." 

"Neither  am  I  usual;  I  am  Nagy  Bosanska. 
And  yet  I  cannot  make  you  believe  in  me." 

She  bowed  her  head  so  that  stray  tendrils  of 

-her  hair  brushed  his  cheek  and  her  voice  sank 

into  a  deep  musical  murmur.     Then  she  raised 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         143 

her  head  again  and  looked  deep  into  his  eyes 
and  his  eyes  turned  not  away.  Some  strange 
swift  current  passed  from  one  to  the  other. 
Philip  trembled  in  his  chair.  The  magic  spell  of 
Nagy  Bosanska  was  upon  him.  And  still  they 
stared  into  one  another's  eyes,  like  Tristan  and 
Isolde  in  the  first  act.  Presently  Philip,  hardly 
knowing  his  own  voice,  so  tense  and  low  was  it, 
heard  himself  saying  to  her: 

"  It  is  for  you  to  make  me  believe  in  you — if 
you  think  it  worth  while." 

"  If,"  she  whispered,  "  you  will  believe  in  me 
in  your  heart  of  heart  I  shall  not  care  what  you 
write  about  me.  It  is  your  faith  I  crave." 

The  word  "  write  "  restored  Philip  temporarily 
to  his  senses. 

"  My  dear  Mile.  Bosanska,"  he  said,  "  if  I  con 
demned  your  Tosca  you  would  regard  me  as  your 
enemy." 

For  answer  she  gazed  steadily  into  his  eyes 
once  more  and  then  whispered: 

"  To-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  at  home — 
alone.  Come  and  let  me  try  to  convince  you." 


144         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

As  she  rose  to  depart,  Philip  shook  his  head 
with  a  smiling  negative  and  she  smiled  back  a 
contradiction.  And  at  half-past  eight  the  follow 
ing  evening,  Philip,  finding  that  after  all  there  was 
neither  opera  nor  concert  demanding  his  attention, 
thought  he  might  as  well  be  convinced,  if  only  for 
the  satisfaction  of  discomfiting  Webster,  and  he 
walked  calmly  into  Nagy's  parlor.  He  found 
the  room  mystic,  with  a  delicious  half-gloom,  in  . 
the  midst  of  which  he  saw  Nagy,  a  wonderful 
vision. 

Her  hair,  which  was  of  the  softest  and  most 
velvety  black,  was  coiled  in  something  like  a 
Grecian  knot  and  hung  low  upon  her  neck,  while 
in  front  it  swept  in  two  seductive  curves  away 
from  her  broad  white  forehefad.  The  robe,  which 
covered,  but  did  not  wholly  conceal,  her  adorable 
body,  was  cut  rather  low  around  the  neck,  so  that 
the  firm  lines  of  her  splendid  throat  and  the 
round  breast  partly  revealed  themselves  and  the 
elbow  sleeves  permitted  a  ravishing  display  of 
her  marvelously  beautiful  forearms. 

Philip  was  no  expert  in  the  garments  of  women, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          145 

but  he  was  sure  that  the  soft  clinging  stuff  which 
floated  around  Nagy  must  have  come  out  of  the 
East.  It  had  a  sensuous  languor  that  breathed 
Oriental  luxury.  When  Nagy  moved  it  twined 
around  her  caressingly  and  threw  the  lines  of  her 
form  into  clear  relief.  And  she  seemed  so  charm 
ingly  unconscious  that  she  was  like  an  odalisque 
or  an  houri  of  the  Turkish  paradise.  She  undu 
lated  toward  him  with  a  strange  inscrutable  smile 
upon  her  ripe  lips.  She  held  out  her  hand  and 
let  her  rosy  fingers  caress  his  for  a  moment. 

'*  I  dreamed  that  you  would  come,"  she  mur 
mured  in  her  low  register. 

''  I  knew  I  would,"  he  answered,  astonished  to 
hear  his  own  voice  sound  a  wooing  note. 

They  stood  gazing  at  each  other  till  suddenly 
Nagy  laughed  a  little  forced  laugh  and  said: 

"  How  foolish  we  look  standing  without  a  word 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Come  and  sit  by  me 
on  the  sofa  and  tell  me  things." 

She  drew  him  to  the  sofa  and  sank  into  its  em 
brace.  Philip  felt  once  more  that  singular  inde 
finable  influence  which  he  had  noted  when  he  sat 


146         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

beside  her  at  Mrs.  Manners',  but  he  could  not 
now  even  make  an  attempt  to  shake  it  off. 

"  I  think  I  cannot  tell  you  anything,"  he  said 
presently;  "  you  seem  to  me  to  know  everything 
already." 

"  Peste !     I  am  not  so  old  as  that,  my  friend." 

"  No,  not  old;  young.  It  is  the  wisdom  of 
eternal  youth." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  a  faint,  half-  - 
hidden  smile  and  looked  at  him  with  a  sweet  gen 
tleness  in  her  eloquent  eyes.  For  some  time  after 
that  their  conversation  was  not  rapid.  It  was 
composed  chiefly  of  a  richly  instrumented  silence 
with  occasional  flashes  of  recitative.  In  the  in 
tervals  of  silence  Nagy  looked  down  at  the  floor. 
If  he  spoke  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  The 
young  man's  pulse  fluttered  as  a  bird  sometimes 
does  at  the  beginning  of  the  serpent's  charming. 
Suddenly  Nagy  rose  and  walked  across  the  room 
rapidly.  Then  she  just  as  suddenly  sat  down  in 
a  large  chair  far  away  from  him.  She  said  noth 
ing  and  he  said  nothing;  but  he  saw  her  bosom 
rising  and  falling  rapidly  and  he  noticed  that  she 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          147 

clenched  her  hands.  His  impulse  to  rush  across 
the  room  and  seize  her  in  his  arms  must  have  be 
trayed  itself  in  his  face,  for  she  rose  from  the 
chair  as  swiftly  as  she  had  dropped  into  it,  and, 
throwing  her  hands  out  in  front  of  her,  ex 
claimed: 

"  Sit  still !    I  am  going  to  sing  for  you." 

She  went  over  to  the  piano  and  seated  herself. 
Her  hands  stroked  the  keys  caressingly  and  the 
strings  sang  flute-like,  subdued  tones. 

"  No  opera,"  she  murmured;  "  something  alto 
gether  different,  something  quite  for — you." 

The  inflection  on  the  last  word  was  like  a  kiss. 
Then  she  began  to  sing,  first  a  quaint  acrid  pierc 
ing  song  of  the  Greek  isles  with  pungent,  melodic 
surprises  in  its  flattened  second  and  its  augmented 
fifth.  Hardly  was  Philip's  ear  filled  with  the  keen 
taste  of  this  when  she  glided  into  a  Turkish  love 
song,  with  a  spineless  tune  and  harmonies 
startlingly  suggestive  of  a  depraved  soul.  Nagy 
sang  in  tones  which  Philip  had  never  before 
heard  in  her  voice,  low,  mellow,  cooing  notes,  like 
those  of  the  dove  in  the  mating  season.  But  still 


i48          THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

the  young  man  was  able  to  contemplate  the  sing 
ing  with  his  mind,  although  his  soul  confessed  the 
marvelous  witchery  of  the  tones.  Nagy  seemed 
instinctively  to  realize  that  her  songs  were  not 
conquering  him.  With  a  sudden  modulation  she 
slipped  into  the  first  words  of  "  Wie  bist  du  meine 
Konigin."  If  Philip  had  one  musical  weak  spot, 
it  was  for  the  songs  of  Brahms.  Nagy  watched 
him  narrowly  through  her  eyelids  and  saw  that 
he  was  now  really  moved.  So  she  sang  on 
through  "  Liebestreu,"  "  Immer  leiser  wird  mein 
Schlummer,"  "  Von  ewiger  Liebe,"  and  "  Wie 
Melodien."  It  was  a  matchless  exposition  of  the 
innermost  soul  of  the  self-contained  German  mas 
ter.  How  this  wild,  untrammeled,  undisciplined 
creature,  with  her  imperfect  training  and  her 
depreciating  operatic  experiences,  ever  acquired 
such  a  noble  and  potent  art  is  something  that  re 
mained  forever  one  of  the  mysteries  of  Philip's 
life.  He  rose  from  the  sofa  slowly  and  re 
luctantly,  as  if  drawn  by  some  supernatural  power 
against  which  his  weakening  will  battled  in  vain. 
He  drew  near  to  her  and  stood  beside  her,  breath- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          149 

ing  quickly.  She  gave  him  a  quick,  short  glance, 
and  he  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Suddenly  she  rose  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders : 

"  Do  you  believe  in  me  now?  " 
"  Yes,"  he  answered  in  a  choked  voice. 
Both  were  silent.  They  stood  straining  their 
looks  to  read  each  other's  heart.  Philip's  senses 
swam  with  deep,  elemental  throbs  of  a  passion 
such  as  he  had  never  dreamed.  His  limbs  trem 
bled  and  his  sight  grew  dim.  Nagy  was  moved. 
This  beautiful,  fresh,  youthful  emotion,  so  pure 
in  its  naivete,  so  rich  and  splendid  in  its  self- 
surrender,  roused  to  a  pulsating  response  all  that 
was  most  generous  in  her  strange  nature.  Per 
haps  this  would  be  for  life.  She  leaned  forward 
slowly,  tenderly,  till  she  lay  caressingly  against 
his  breast.  He  made  one  last  feeble  effort  to  free 
himself.  She  felt  the  movement  and  looked  up 
into  his  eyes  and  he  was  sure  that  he  saw  the 
glisten  of  tears.  A  mighty  thrill  swept  through 
him.  Could  it  be  true  that  this  marvelous  crea 
ture  loved  him?  He  cast  away  all  thought.  He 


150         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

suddenly  wrapped  her  in  his  arms  and  flung  his 
lips  upon  hers. 

****** 

The  morning  light  had  a  lurid  tint  to  the  eyes 
of  Philip.  He  even  cowered  under  it  as  if  shrink 
ing  from  an  impending  blow.  A  lassitude,  such  as 
he  had  never  before  known,  lay  upon  his  mind. 
He  felt  only  the  chill  glare  of  the  dull,  cold  light 
and  a  faint  trembling  in  his  limbs.  He  asked 
himself  nothing.  The  mental  numbness  resolved 
itself  into  a  steady  stare  at  the  thin  line  of  white 
between  the  portieres  at  the  window.  Real  con 
sciousness  returned  to  him  only  when  he  heard 
as  from  a  distance  the  voice  of  Nagy. 

u  It  is  growing  late.  There  is  coffee  in  the 
next  room  when  you  are  ready." 

He  did  not  see  her.  He  did  not  try.  He  shiv 
ered  as  he  recalled  the  previous  evening.  He 
rose  slowly  and  heavily  and  in  half  an  hour  passed 
into  the  adjoining  chamber,  where  he  found  her 
sitting  at  the  little  table,  looking  divinely  lovely 
and  exquisitely  submissive.  She  turned  a  plead 
ing  pair  of  eyes  upon  him  and  lifted  her  red 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          151 

mouth.     He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  and  then 
sighed  deeply  as  he  seated  himself  opposite  her. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  my  friend?  "  she  asked. 

uWhat  shall  I  do  next?"  he  responded. 
"  Shall  I  resign?" 

"Resign  what?" 

u  My  post  as  music  critic?  " 

"  But  for  what  should  you  do  this?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you,"  he  answered  with  simple 
earnestness.  "  I  cannot  write  honestly  about  you, 
can  I?" 

Nagy  gave  him  one  of  her  long  melting  looks 
from  half-closed  eyes. 

"  What  a  dear  innocent  child  it  is !  Do  you 
think,  Philip,  that  I  would  care  for  you  if  you 
were  not  honest?  " 

"  It  is  not  you,  but  myself,  that  I  cannot  trust." 

"  How  is  that?" 

"  Everything  you  do  will  be  beautiful  to  me. 
I  shall  adore  you  if  you  sing  out  of  tune." 

:'  I  never  sing  out  of  tune," 

There  was  a  note  of  challenge  in  the  declara 
tion,  but  the  infatuated  young  man  did  not  hear  it. 


152          THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  No,"  he  continued;  "  but  you  may  do  some 
thing  which  ought  to  seem  wrong  to  me,  and  it 
will  not." 

"  Come,  then,"  she  said,  passing  around  the 
table  and  twining  her  arms  about  his  neck.  '  It 
shall  be  a  battle  between  us.  You  shall  swear  to 
write  always  the  truth  about  me,  and  I — I  shall 
try  always  to  make  you  blind  with  love." 

Philip  sighed  again,  and  Nagy  broke  into  a 
low  ripple  of  laughter. 

"  Silly  boy!  "  she  said;  "  it  shall  be  nothing  of 
that  kind.  It  shall  be  something  much  better. 
When  I  am  on  the  stage,  I  shall  be  for  you  Mile. 
Bosanska,  prima  donna  assoluta.  You  shall  study 
me  as  a  curiosity  of  art  and  write  about  me  as 
something  that  dwells  behind  footlights  and  not 
in  your  world.  And  then  you  shall  come  to  me 
and  I  shall  be  just  a  woman — who  loves  you." 

And  that  was  the  beginning  of  their  impossible 
compact. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TT  was  a  bright,  sharp  morning,  with  almost  no 
•*•  wind.  The  frost  lay  white  upon  the  shrunken 
grasses  of  the  park  lawns,  and  Helen  strode  rap 
idly  along  the  walk  gazing  upon  the  field  of  dia 
monds  with  unobservant  eye.  Her  mind  was  ab 
sorbed  in  her  own  affairs.  More  than  one  man 
passing  on  horseback  or  in  a  vehicle  turned  his 
head  to  drink  in  the  beautiful  vision.  With  her 
perfectly  shaped  head  bowed,  and  her  long  soft 
lashes  falling  upon  her  rosy  cheeks,  her  lips  parted, 
and  her  hair  shining  in  the  sunlight,  Helen  was  a 
ravishing  figure.  Every  line  of  her  expressed 
high-bred  character  and  intellect.  But  a  single  ex 
amination  of  her  face  sufficed  to  convince  one  that 
she  was  a  sensitive  human  instrument  with  infinite 
vibrations.  It  was  in  the  line  of  her  upper  lip  that 
much  was  revealed.  The  two  little  points  under 
the  nostrils  turned  upward  just  the  least  bit  in  the 
world,  and  this  gave  the  lip  the  air  of  reaching 

153 


154         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

itself  forward  always  in  the  invitation  of  a  kiss. 
It  was  a  lip  to  rouse  the  ardor  of  any  man,  and  it 
had  had  its  day  with  Leander.  But  now? 

Perhaps  it  was  of  that  "  But  now?  "  that  Helen 
was  in  a  dim  way  trying  to  think.  The  opera  sea 
son  was  dragging  its  slow  length  along,  and  she 
realized  that  a  barrier,  undefined,  unconfessed,  was 
growing  up  between  her  and  her  husband.  Le 
ander  was  restive  in  her  presence,  impatient  of  her 
words,  unmelted  by  her  caresses.  She  almost 
shrank  from  offering  to  kiss  him,  and  yet  she  felt 
that  if  she  did  not,  he  would  be  offended,  for  she 
knew  how  childish  he  was  in  regard  to  all  atten 
tions.  He  expected  so  much,  and  gave  so  little. 
But  it  was  not  so  much  this  that  troubled  her  as 
the  thought  that  he  was  slowly  coming  to  give 
almost  nothing,  and  to  value  but  lightly  that  which 
he  received.  What  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all? 

Helen  knew  that  she  loved  him.  That  was  set 
tled  for  life,  she  thought.  It  was  not  her  fault, 
she  believed.  She  gave  him  all,  all  that  she  had, 
and  she  felt  it  no  shame  to  confess  to  her  own  soul 
that  she  had  much  to  give.  She  knew  that  never 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          155 

in  the  earliest  transports  of  their  union  had  Lean- 
der  given  as  much  as  he  had  received.  He  was 
merely  the  man,  taking  boldly  that  which  was  his 
right;  she  was  the  woman,  whose  rapture  it  was  to 
give  and  to  suffer  the  deepest  pangs  of  woman's 
agony  of  joy  in  the  giving.  Leander  had  told  her 
more  than  once  that  she  did  not  understand  him; 
but  she  knew  well  that  he  did  not  understand  her. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  that.  She  was  afraid  of 
only  one  thing.  She  dreaded  to  admit  that  he 
failed  to  perceive  the  fullness  and  splendor  of  her 
love  for  him.  She  would  not  confess  it.  But 
away  down  in  the  secret  place  where  unconfessed 
thoughts  hide,  this  one  existed  in  spite  of  her. 

Ever  since  that  day  on  which  the  full  revelation 
of  his  egotism  had  smitten  her  so  sharply  she  had 
been  discovering  further  evidence  of  Leander's  in 
ability  to  comprehend  anything  which  did  not  fawn 
before  his  greatness.  Helen  had  turned  away  in 
disgust  from  the  prostrate  attitude  of  such  women 
as  Mrs.  Harley  Manners,  who  spent  much  of  their 
time  in  telling  the  tenor  how  marvelously  he  had 
sung  this  aria  or  that  scene.  And  why  did  he  sit 


156         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

and  smile  complacently  when  such  talk  was 
paraded  before  him?  How  could  any  man  who 
really  had  the  true  humility  of  a  great  artist  listen 
to  the  flattery  of  ignorant  amateurs,  who  could 
not  know  whether  his  art  was  beautiful  or  not? 
How  much  more  easy  it  would  be  for  Helen  to  un 
derstand  his  accepting  with  interest  some  intelligent 
bit  of  praise  from  one  of  his  fellow  singers.  Even 
that  strange  creature,  Nagy  Bosanska,  would  at 
least  know  what  the  vocal  excellence  of  a  scene 
really  was. 

And  at  this  moment  Helen  was  crossing  a  drive 
and  had  to  stop  in  order  to  avoid  being  run  down 
by  an  automobile.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  in 
the  car,  in  close  conversation,  her  husband  and 
Mile.  Bosanska.  As  the  car  slowed  down  to  take 
a  curve  they  both  looked  up  and  saw  her.  At 
once  Mile.  Bosanska  signaled  her  chauffeur  to 
stop,  and,  leaning  out  of  the  car,  called 
to  Helen: 

"  Mrs.  Baroni,  come  with  us,  will  you  not?  I 
have  brought  your  husband  to  talk  to  me  about 
some  of  our  scenes  together." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          157 

Helen  walked  up  to  the  side  of  the  car  and 
smiled  at  them  both. 

"  Thank  you,  Mile.  Bosanska,  but  I  am  out  for 
a  good  walk,  and  you  two  are  much  better  without 
me.  I  should  only  put  an  end  to  your  studies. 
You  see,  I  do  not  understand  all  these  nice  little 
operatic  relations  and  distinctions." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Helen?  "  asked  Baroni  in 
a  strained  tone. 

"  Just  what  I  say,  Leander.  You  must  not  try 
to  make  what  the  conductors  call '  readings  '  of  my 
simple  prattle.  Good-by.  Have  a  pleasant  ride, 
and  be  sure  you  get  your  scenes  all  planned,  so 
that  they'll  make  hits." 

And  the  automobile  rolled  slowly  up  the  slope 
as  Helen  strode  off  in  the  opposite  direction.  It 
was  fated  to  be  a  morning  of  small  but  significant 
incidents,  and  this  one  was  not  the  least  significant 
of  them.  Helen  went  on  her  way,  thinking  that 
her  words  had  been  unnecessarily  pointed.  Lean 
der  might  almost  think  that  she  was  jealous.  Was 
she?  She  asked  herself  that  question,  and  then 
smiled.  What  reason  had  she  to  suppose  that  her 


158          THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

husband  was  interested  in  the  soprano  any  more 
than  one  singer  might  be  interested  in  another  who 
helped  him  to  make  successes? 

She  had  learned  not  a  little  about  the  inner  life 
of  an  opera  house.  She  knew  that  all  sorts  of  ir 
regular  relations  existed  in  that  strange  artificial 
world,  where  the  unreal  people  seemed  to  belong 
to  a  species  different  from  that  commonly  called 
human.  She  had  seen  a  prima  donna  holding  in  , 
abject  subjection  two  men  at  the  same  time,  and 
she  had  watched  the  comet-like  rise  of  an  unknown 
young  singer  who  was  credited  with  the  most  im 
partial  distribution  of  her  favor  among  those  in 
power.  She  knew,  as  every  one  else  knew,  that 
Nagy  Bosanska  and  Comparelli,the  conductor,  had 
been  entangled  in  a  relation  of  long  standing,  but 
she  had  been  told  (falsely,  indeed)  that  it  was  en 
tirely  a  liaison  de  convenance  on  the  part  of  the 
soprano,  who  had  a  surprising  way  of  freeing  her 
self  from  bonds  at  a  moment's  notice.  But  she 
had  discerned  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  her  hus 
band  to  suggest  to  her  anything  more  disagreeable 
than  the  domination  of  his  own  splendid  egotism. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          159 

She  had  no  fear  that  he  was  likely  to  fall  a  prey 
to  the  seductions  of  Mile.  Bosanska.  And  even  if 
he  were  in  such  danger,  it  could  not  well  be  re 
garded  as  anything  serious.  He  loved  his  wife 
still. 

So  she  strode  along  the  walk,  while  the  caresses 
of  the  ardent  breeze  heightened  the  glow  in  her 
cheeks  and  the  light  in  her  eyes.  And  suddenly 
she  became  aware  of  a  familiar  figure  walking  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  drive.  It  was  Philip 
Studley,  with  his  head  bent  low,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  coat  collar  turned  up.  He  was 
going  in  the  direction  opposite  to  that  in  which 
Helen  was  walking,  and  as  they  drew  nearer  to 
gether  she  noted  that  his  face  was  pale,  and  that 
he  was  biting  his  lips  in  an  agitated  manner. 
Rapidly  she  crossed  the  road  and  intercepted 
him. 

"  Some  unfortunate  wretch  must  be  going  to 
catch  it  in  the  Sunday  article,"  she  said,  laugh 
ing. 

He  looked  up,  greeted  her  in  a  somewhat  con 
fused  manner,  and  then  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were 


160         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

bloodshot  and  the  lids  heavy,  as  if  he  had  passed 
a  sleepless  night. 

"  Let  me  walk  with  you.  Philip/'  she  said;  "  you 
seem  to  me  to  be  not  quite  well." 

She  slipped  her  hand  inside  his  arm  and  smiled 
kindly  at  him. 

;'  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked;  "  I  am  per 
fectly  well." 

The  eagerness  with  which  he  spoke  brought  a  • 
sudden   suspicion  into   Helen's  mind.      Could  he 
have  been  dissipating?     But  she  knew  that  he  was 
one  of  the  steadiest  of  men. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  she  declared;  "  I  sup 
pose  it  is  too  much  work,  then." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  a  little  im 
patiently. 

"Did  you  pass  Leander?"  inquired  Helen, 
hoping  to  find  a  diverting  topic.  *  You  came 
down  the  road  just  after  he  and  Mile.  Bosanska 
went  up  in  her  car." 

Philip  stopped  short  in  the  path  and  stared  into 
her  face. 

"  Did  you  meet  them?  "  he  demanded. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          161 

'  Yes;  they  invited  me  to  get  into  the  car;  but 
you  know  they  were  out  talking  over  scenes,  and  I 
should  only  have  been  in  the  way." 

"  Oh!  "  That  was  Philip's  reply,  and  then  he 
strode  on  in  silence. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Helen,  "  I  think  that 
when  it  comes  to  matters  of  their  profession,  these 
singers  are  best  left  to  themselves.  They  do  not 
care  to  have  outsiders  intruding." 

'You  are  not  an  outsider,"  said  Philip;  "  you 
are  the  man's  wife." 

"  Of  course,  I  am  not  an  outsider  in  that  sense, 
only  in  opera  affairs." 

'  They  did  not  invite  me  to  get  into  the  car. 
She  pretended  not  to  see  me." 

Philip  spoke  with  some  bitterness  in  his  tone, 
and  Helen  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Why  should  she  pretend?  " 

"  Because — because 

He  stopped,  and,  summoning  a  smile  to  his  lips, 
continued  with  some  assumption  of  carelessness: 

"  I  really  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  am  fool 
ishly  sensitive." 


1 62         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Helen  looked  at  him  very  hard,  and  he  turned 
his  eyes  away.  Then  each  tried  to  probe  the 
other's  heart.  Helen  was  troubled.  She  pressed 
his  arm  gently  and  said : 

"  Philip,  I  wish  I  were  not  anxious  about  you." 

"  Are  you  ?     Why  should  you  be  ?  " 

"  I  am,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  tell  you 
why." 

The  young  man's  cheek  flushed,  and  he  turned 
his  head  so  that  he  looked  squarely  into  her  eyes. 

"  Say  anything  you  please,  Helen.  You  are  an 
old  friend." 

Still  she  hesitated  for  some  moments  before  she 
went  on. 

"  Don't  spoil  your  career  by  becoming  interested 
in  a  prima  donna.  No,  don't  answer.  I  know 
you  are  not  in  real  peril  yet;  but  she  is  very 
fascinating,  and  you  are  still  young,  and  I  do  hope 
to  see  you  at  the  top  of  your  profession,  recog 
nized  all  over  the  world  as  our  leading  authority." 

The  young  man's  lips  burned  with  eagerness  to 
say,  u  You  are  too  late;  I  love  her;"  but  he 
knew  that  he  must  not.  Unanswerable  questions 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          163 

would  follow.  He  could  tell  no  one.  He  must 
go  on  hugging  his  secret,  ashamed  of  the  thing 
that  had  come  to  trouble  his  life.  In  the  brief 
time  which  had  passed  there  had  been  no  perform 
ance  calling  for  the  expression  of  new  opinions. 
Nagy  had  been  repeating  her  old  roles,  and  Philip 
found  it  easy  enough  to  write  non-committal  gen 
eralities.  Furthermore,  Nagy  was  a  consummate 
artist,  and  there  was  seldom  any  difficulty  in  find 
ing  ground  for  praise.  Yet,  like  all  other  artists, 
she  had  her  limitations,  and  she  was  sure  some  day 
to  fail  to  recognize  them,  and — what  then? 

"  Helen,"  he  said  at  length,  "  what  makes  you 
think  that  I  need  this  warning?  " 

'  Your  strange  manner  this  morning.  You  actu 
ally  seemed  to  be  jealous  of — my  husband." 

"  My  dear  Helen,  that  is,  of  course,  quite  pre 
posterous.  You  must  know  that — that — I — what 
do  you  mean,  anyhow?  Do  you  believe 
that ?" 

'*  I  believe  that  my  husband  has  no  concern  in 
your  affair  at  all,"  she  replied  as  kindly  as  she 
could.  "  And  I  believe  that  unless  you  make  up 


1 64         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

your  mind  to  avoid  close  friendship  with  Mile. 
Bosanska,  she  will  exercise  a  detrimental  influence 
upon  you.  That  is  quite  all  that  it  is  possible  for 
me  to  say  in  regard  to  this  matter,  Philip." 

They  had  reached  one  of  the  park  gates,  and  the 
young  man,  who  could  find  no  words  with  which 
to  continue  the  conversation,  and  who  was,  indeed, 
covered  with  confusion,  made  a  half-intelligible  ex 
cuse,  and  hastened  away,  leaving  Helen  to  finish 
her  walk  alone.  As  she  went  on  close  to  the  park 
wall,  she  felt  a  genuine  regret  for  her  old  friend, 
but  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  seriousness  of  his 
trouble.  She  was  certain  that  he  would  have  the 
determination  to  keep  away  from  the  prima  donna, 
and  that,  in  a  brief  time,  he  would  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  her  charms.  And  at  that  very  instant 
Philip  was  striding  through  a  side  street,  filled  with 
contending  emotions,  for  he  had  heard  enough  of 
the  history  of  Nagy  Bosanska  to  make  him  fear. 


CHAPTER  XII 

^T^HE  next  afternoon  he  stood  in  her  drawing- 
"*•  room.  There  she  came  to  him  a  melting, 
loving  woman,  whose  embrace  was  close  and 
tender.  He  was  reassured.  He  believed  that  her 
love  was  his,  and  that  it  was  the  crowning  glory 
of  his  life.  He  had  been  present  on  the  previous 
evening,  when  she  sang  Marguerite  for  the  first 
time  in  New  York.  She  was  a  singer  of  the  kind 
usually  called  "  phenomenal  "  by  newspapers,  be 
cause  her  repertoire,  like  herself,  was  wayward  and 
unaccountable.  It  ranged  through  a  series  of 
roles  which  no  one  woman  could  be  expected  to 
sing.  Yet  this  curious  creature,  with  her  sin 
gularly  capricious  temperament  and  her  marvel 
ous  voice,  which  swept  the  scale  from  low  A  to 
high  D,  sang  them,  some  well,  some  ill,  but  all  in 
terestingly. 

Philip    had   sat   through    the    performance    of 

"  Faust "   in  a  state  of   dumb   amazement.     He 

165 


1 66         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

found  his  passionate  mistress  transformed  into  a 
prima  donna  of  the  Grand  Opera.  Her  Mar 
guerite  was  perfect  in  every  external  necessity.  It 
was  the  essence  of  polite  convention.  And  Philip 
knew  that  Nagy  was  not  polite,  not  conventional, 
and,  above  all  things,  not  phlegmatic.  That  gave 
him  his  cue.  He  praised  her  Marguerite  in 
phrases  as  polished  and  pretty  as  her  own  per 
formance.  But  he  declared  that  in  the  subtle  and 
eloquent  personality  of  this  matchless  prima  donna 
there  was  far  more  than  the  role  could  evoke. 
The  part,  therefore,  was  depressing  to  her.  It 
chilled  the  native  fire  of  her  soul.  It  left  her 
with  only  the  resources  of  her  perfect  routine  to 
guide  her  through  a  faultless,  but  dispiriting,  im 
personation.  A  correct  and  exquisitely  beautiful 
singer  of  Gounod's  musical  ideas,  she  was  none  the 
less  not  an  illusive  Marguerite.  Every  word 
which  Philip  wrote  was  studied  in  its  accuracy. 
He  did  not  temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb. 
He  had  never  done  that  in  his  young  critical  life, 
and,  remembering  his  compact  with  Nagy,  he  com 
pelled  himself  to  speak  the  truth  about  the  woman 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          167 

he  loved.  Had  she  not  told  him  that  she  could 
not  love  him  if  he  were  not  true  to  himself?  And 
so  that  next  afternoon,  on  his  way  home  from  a 
deadening  piano  recital  at  Mendelssohn  Hall,  he 
went  to  her,  and  she  melted  into  his  arms  and 
caressed  his  hair  as  she  gazed  into  his  eyes. 

"  Ami  choisi  de  mon  coeur,"  she  murmured, 
"  que  je  t'aime,  que  je  t'aime." 

"  Say  it  in  English,  dear,"  he  whispered. 

"  How  I  love  you,"  she  cooed,  with  her  ravish 
ing  little  foreign  accent,  which  made  the  phrase 
sound  even  more  caressing  than  it  was. 

'  You  were  not  hurt  by  my  words?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  swiftly;  "how  could 
your  sweet  honesty,  your  beautiful  courage,  hurt 
me?  And  Marguerite  is  not  a  good  part  for  me, 
anyhow.  That  is  true.  I  have  not  sung  Gounod 
before  in  New  York.  I  am  going  to  sing  Juliette 
next  week.  You'll  find  that  much  different." 

Something  in  this  speech  sent  a  momentary  chill 
through  Philip's  veins,  but  he  soon  rallied.  Doubt 
less,  what  she  said  was  true.  He  would  wait. 

"  You  wrote  exactly  what  your  mind  told  you, 


1 68         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

did  you  not?  "  she  asked;  "you  did  not  let  your 
heart  misguide  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  it,  dear;  you  have  said  it." 

She  mused  a  minute  as  her  head  rested  on  his 
shoulder.  Then  she  lifted  her  lips  for  a  kiss,  and 
when  he  had  poured  out  some  of  his  soul,  she 
murmured : 

"  You  are  the  first  who  ever  thought  my  Mar 
guerite  cold.  How  can  it  be?  " 

"  That  is  one  of  the  impenetrable  mysteries  of 
art,"  he  answered  with  an  indulgent  air. 

"Like  some  of  your  criticisms,  eh?" 

u  Oh,  Lord!  "  he  exclaimed;  "  if  you're  going 
to  talk  about  them,  I  expect  we  shall  soon  be 
buried  in  impenetrable  mysteries." 

She  laughed  and  cooed  at  him,  and  twined  her 
soft  arms  about  him,  and  he  was  most  utterly  and 
foolishly  happy.  Then  she  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  a  strange  compelling  expression  in  the 
marvelous  green  eyes.  The  air  turned  rosy 
around  the  young  man,  he  trembled,  and  suddenly 
clasped  her  convulsively.  Then  for  a  time  he 
knew  nothing  accurately  except  that  he  was  trans- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          169 

ported  into  the  realms  of  unspeakable  ecstasy. 
And  when  he  left  her  an  hour  later,  he  was  more 
completely  hers  than  ever  before. 

He  did  not  see  her  the  next  day  or  two,  for  he 
and  she  were  both  much  occupied  with  their  pro 
fessional  labors.  Finally  came  the  performance 
of  "  Romeo  et  Juliette."  Philip  was  nervous. 
He  suffered  an  indescribable  agony  for  her,  but  she 
was  apparently  as  calm  as  a  summer  noon.  He 
wished  she  had  not  been.  She  sang  the  waltz 
song  faultlessly.  The  scintillating  cadenza  flashed 
from  her  lips  deliciously,  and  the  dear  public  went 
into  raptures.  Indeed,  the  whole  first  act  was 
most  commendable.  She  was  the  Lady  Juliette  in 
very  truth.  But  with  the  second  act  began  the 
descent  into  elegance.  Philip  was  troubled. 
Was  this  the  woman  who  had  thrilled  the  house 
with  her  blazing  Carmen,  with  her  exquisitely 
pathetic  Mimi,  with  her  superb  Tosca?  Was 
this  the  singer  who  had  poured  out  for  him  the  im 
mortal  treasures  of  a  great  spirit  in  "  Wie  bist  du 
meine  Konigin  "?  And  then  he  had  a  flash  of  in 
spiration.  In  the  morning  his  paper  said  this: 


170         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Beautiful,  proud,  stately,  the  daughter  of  a 
hundred  earls,  as  it  were,  this  Juliette  moved  to  her 
fate  with  the  poise  of  a  grande  dame  of  the 
revolution.  Not  a  flaw  was  there  in  the  delivery 
of  the  unctuous  music  of  Gounod.  The  river  of 
melody  flowed,  undulating  and  glinting,  ever  on 
ward.  The  ear  was  ravished  by  such  singing. 
But  in  the  end  it  was  the  taste,  not  the  emotions, 
that  was  satisfied.  What  was  the  secret  of  it?. 
This  public  well  knows  that  Mile.  Bosanska  does 
not  lack  temperament.  But  in  this  elegant  salon 
music  there  is  something  that  cabins,  cribs,  and  con 
fines  her  splendid  genius.  One  easily  imagines  her 
moving  the  world  with  an  interpretation  of  *  Wie 
bist  du  meine  Konigin,'  or  '  Liebestreu.'  ' 

There  was  much  more  of  it,  but  this  will  suf 
fice  to  show  the  trend  of  the  entire  article.  Philip 
wrote  it  in  an  intense  mood,  and  pondered  each 
word  of  it.  He  felt,  when  he  had  finished  it, 
that  he  had  turned  out  something  quite  beyond 
cavil.  He  was  sure  that,  if  Nagy  were  in  the  least 
annoyed  at  his  discovery  that  her  temperament 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          171 

was  crushed  by  Gounod,  she  would  be  deeply 
touched  by  his  reference  to  her  marvelous  Brahms 
singing,  and  to  the  very  songs  which  she  had  sung 
for  him  on  the  day  when  they  had  discovered  their 
hearts  to  each  other. 

She  must  know  that  there  was  neither  soul  nor 
foundation  to  the  music  of  Gounod,  that  the  score 
of  "  Romeo  et  Juliette "  was  as  far  from 
Shakespeare  as  that  of  "  Faust  "  was  from  Goethe. 
Nagy,  that  profound,  inscrutable  embodiment  of 
the  ewig  weibliche,  would  penetrate  with  a  single 
flash  of  her  illuminating  intellect  to  the  very  bot 
tom  of  all  things.  She  would  know,  she  would 
understand,  she  would  always  understand.  The 
General  was  a  fool,  and  there  was  no  wisdom  in 
his  heart. 

And  in  her  singing  of  the  Brahms  songs  she 
had  probed  the  depths  of  all  human  experience. 
What  melting  tints  had  come  into  her  voice! 
What  indescribable  accents,  filled  with  the  utter 
most  pain  of  concentrated  tenderness,  had  vital 
ized  every  phrase!  How  could  such  a  woman 
toy  with  the  table  dessert  of  Gounod?  She  was 


172         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

made  for  life,  not  for  the  pastime  of  a  horde  of 
prattling  society  people,  expressing  in  shop-worn 
phrases  their  conventional  raptures  over  this  con 
ventional  music.  And  so,  confident  of  her  far- 
reaching  vision,  he  went  to  her  in  the  afternoon. 

"  So,"  she  said  in  a  low  purring  tone,  "  you 
don't  think  I'm  fit  for  an  opera  singer." 

Philip  was  transfixed  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
For  the  instant  words  would  not  come  to  him. 
Presently  he  stammered: 

"  My  dear  love- " 

"  Omit  that  just  now,"  she  said,  interrupting 
him  with  precision.  "  I'm  somewhat  afraid,  my 
good  friend,  that  you  do  not  understand  the  na 
ture  of  your  calling  or  mine.  How  dared  you 
to  intimate  that  I  would  be  better  as  a  lieder 
singer  than  as  the  prima  donna  of  Gounod's  mas 
terpieces?  Stupendous!  I,  Nagy  Bosanska,  the 
idol  of  two  continents,  to  descend  to  Carnegie 
Lyceum  and  a  piano  accompaniment!  " 

"  But  surely  you  can  be  a  greater  artist  there 
than  in  a  Gounod  candy  factory.  Besides,  my 
dearest,  I  have  never  said  that  you  were  not 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          173 

superb  in  other  works.  Still,  I  do  believe  that  you 
are  the  greatest  lieder  singer  in  the  world." 

"  Greatest  idiot  you !  I'm  the  first  Juliette. 
Saint-Saens  told  me  so.  I  am  a  prima  donna,  the 
great  Nagy  Bosanska.  As  for  you,  you  are  a 
fool." 

"  I  thought  that  it  was  understood  between  us 
that  I  was  to  write  according  to  my  convictions, 
and  that  this  would  have  no  relation  to  our  love," 
Philip  said  slowly. 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  cannot  expect  me  to  love 
a  fool,  can  you?  You  are  surely  a  fool.  I  have 
no  patience  with  fools." 

"  I  am,  perhaps,  fool  enough  to  have  given  you 
a  great  love,"  said  Philip  bitterly. 

u  Oh,  prince  of  simpletons !  Go,  go.  Can 
you  not  see  that  you  weary  me  ?  You  are  a  child. 
I  am  a  woman.  I  thought  you  might  bring- 'me 
joy,  but  I  find  that  you  only  tire  me.  You  are  too 
stupid  to  be  the  lover  of  a  real  woman.  Run 
away  and  find  yourself  a  little  yellow-haired,  blue- 
eyed  doll  to  play  with." 

With  no  little  dignity  Philip  picked  up  his  hat. 


174         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  You  are  quite  right  in  your  attitude,"  he 
said;  "I  have  made  a  grave  mistake.  I  think 
we  shall  do  better  to  remain  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  footlights.  You  sing  opera;  I  shall  write 
comment.  You  have  taught  me  wonders  of  life. 
I  have  seen  a  little  way  into  the  soul  of  a  woman, 
and  I  have  tasted  the  depths  of  passion.  I  thank 
you.  I  am  grown  somewhat  wiser  than  I  was." 

He  went  to  the  door  of  the  room,  but  on  its   - 
threshold  the  ruling  passion  of  the  critic  proved 
too  strong  for  him,  and,  with  a  cold  smile  on  his 
face,  he  said : 

"  Nevertheless,  Mile.  Bosanska,  it  is  my  opinion 
that  you  would  be  the  greatest  lieder  singer  in  the 
world." 

"  Beast!  "  she  shrieked,  and,  picking  up  a  vase 
which  was  near  at  hand,  she  hurled  it  at  him.  It 
crashed  against  the  door  as  he  closed  it  behind 
him,  and  then  Nagy  threw  herself  upon  a  sofa 
and  filled  the  room  with  peals  of  uncontrollable 
laughter. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DAY  by  day  the  chasm  between  Helen  and 
her  husband  widened.  She  strove  in  vain 
to  bridge  it.  She  reached  out  toward  him  with 
all  the  sweet  lure  of  her  beautiful  spirit.  She 
wove  around  him  a  dream  of  subtle,  intangible 
passion,  a  thin,  lambent  flame  of  pure  fire,  which 
burned  immortal  on  the  altar  of  her  soul.  But 
it  was  all  to  no  purpose,  for  he  seemed  to  be  in 
sensible,  and  her  conviction  that  Leander  wor 
shiped  only  one  god,  self,  grew  stronger  and 
stronger.  She  saw  it  always  in  his  attitude  toward 
his  art.  In  his  demeanor  toward  herself  it  took 
the  form  of  more  or  less  intolerant  endurartce. 
Sometimes  his  impatience  was  curbed  for  a  period, 
but  only  to  break  forth  again  with  renewed 
violence. 

It  was  a  petty  impatience,  but  it  showed  that 

his  nature  was  under  a  pressure.     But  when  it 

175 


176         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

came  to  questions  of  art,  he  spoke  in  no  uncertain 
terms.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  conclusion 
that  for  Leandro  Baroni  music  was  simply  the 
instrument  by  which  he  raised  himself  to  glory. 
The  music  itself  was  great  or  little,  according  to 
the  opportunities  it  afforded  him. 

Helen  had  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  with  her 
to  certain  concerts,  such  as  those  of  the  Kneisel 
Quartet  or  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  but 
he  would  not  consent.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
learned,  he  declared,  from  listening  to  fellows 
sawing  fiddles  or  blowing  brass.  At  the  opera 
house  one  heard  quite  enough  of  them,  and  most 
of  the  time  too  much.  They  made  such  a  noise 
that  no  human  voice  could  carry  above  it.  The 
old-fashioned  opera  composers,  who  wrote  for 
harpsichord  and  strings,  were  the  only  sensible 
ones,  after  all.  Of  the  mysterious  influence  of 
Nagy  Bosanska  on  this  self-centered  nature  Helen 
had  as  yet  no  suspicion.  She  knew  that  the  selfish 
man  was  a  weak  man,  but  she  felt  that  Leander 
was  entirely  and  exclusively  interested  in  himself, 
and  prepared  to  accept  worship  from  any  quarter, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          177 

so  long  as  he  was  not  required  to  give  anything  in 
return  for  it. 

Nevertheless,  daily  the  tenor  was  unconsciously 
drawing  closer  to  the  strange  Hungarian  gipsy. 
A  drifting,  purposeless  character,  he  unconsciously 
leaned  against  the  elemental  forces  of  this  other 
complex  and  inexplicable  soul.  For  such  a  man 
as  Leander  such  a  woman  was  as  the  great  sea 
to  a  floating  feather.  It  was  inevitable  that  in 
time  he  would  hover  over  the  fathomless  abyss, 
fall,  and  be  drawn  down  into  the  depths.  And 
all  that  was  required  to  bring  about  the  catas 
trophe  was  a  direct  controversy  between  husband 
and  wife.  Leander  was  selfish  and  weak  enough 
to  remember  and  accept  Nagy's  invitation  to  him 
to  come  to  her  if  the  world  was  hard  upon  him. 

Trifles  have  sufficed  to  start  revolutions  when 
everything  was  ripe.  It  was  the  merest  of  tnfles 
that  broke  the  last  of  Helen's  bridges  across  the 
spreading  chasm.  She  was  enduring  a  visitation 
from  Mrs.  Harley  Manners.  That  industrious 
lady,  going  up  and  down  the  world  seeking  to 
devour  some  celebrity,  had  hoped  that  she  might 


178         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

gather  in  the  tenor  and  his  wife  as  the  central  at 
tractions  of  a  musicale  in  aid  of  charity,  to  be 
given  at  her  house.  Her  plan  of  campaign  was 
to  open  with  a  masterly  assault  on  the  good  will 
of  Helen,  and,  accordingly,  she  was  enthroned  in 
a  chair  of  state  while  Helen  summoned  her  forti 
tude  and  hardened  her  ears.  In  the  midst  of 
the  conversational  monologue  Leander  unexpect 
edly  arrived,  and  was  greeted  with  fluttering  ser 
vility  by  Mrs.  Manners. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Barrett,"  she  said,  for  she  had  now 
advanced  to  such  intimacy  that  she  did  not  use 
his  stage  name;  "you  are  so  delightful  to  come 
home  while  I  am  here.  I  so  much  wanted  to  see 
you." 

Leander  smiled  his  habitual  indulgent  smile. 
He  accepted  all  homage  as  his  inalienable  right, 
and  accorded  it  his  royal  favor. 

"  I  heard  your  Walther  in  '  Die  Meistersinger  ' 
the  other  night.  I  am  now  certain  that  I  never 
understood  the  character  before.  All  the  other 
tenors  have  given  me  the  impression  that  Walther 
was  a  sort  of  society  man,  who  did  not  think  that 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          179 

singing  was  really  worthy  of  his  dignity,  while 
you  have  shown  me  that  he  sang  as  he  had 
to  because  he  was  a  real  poet.  It  was  so  inter 
esting." 

There  was  much  more  of  the  same  sort  before 
Mrs.  Manners,  finding  that  she  really  had  to  look 
in  at  Mrs.  Truman  Bellows'  afternoon,  hastened 
down  the  avenue  in  her  limousine. 

"  Leander,"  said  Helen,  after  the  departure  had 
been  successfully  effected,  "  how  can  you  bear  to 
listen  so  readily  to  the  meaningless  nonsense  that 
woman  talks?  " 

"  Nonsense?     What  nonsense?  " 

"  Such  twitter  as  she  emitted  about  some  tenors 
making  her  think  Walther  a  society  man  and  your 
teaching  her  the  truth." 

"Well,  I  did,  didn't  I?" 

> 

" '  Nun  sang  er  wie  er  musst', 

Und  wie  er  musst',  so  konnt'  er's.'  ' 

Helen  softly  sang  the  words,  and  then,  smiling, 
added: 

"  Leander,  I'm  sure  you  don't  think  that  Mrs. 


180         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Manners  invented  that  idea.  You've  heard  Hans 
Sachs  say  it  too  often." 

"  Oh,  rubbish.  As  usual,  you  are  trying  to 
belittle  my  art." 

Helen  rose  with  dignity  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  serious  countenance. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Leander,  what  was  that?  " 

"  I  say  that  you  are  trying  to  pooh-pooh  the 
praise  which  I  extract  even  from  such  connois 
seurs  as  Mrs.  Manners.  I  don't  understand  why 
you  assume  such  a  position.  You  ought  to  be  glad 
that  I  arouse  her  enthusiasm." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  are  willing  to  ac 
cept  the  silly  comment  of  a  wholly  superficial 
mind  as  a  tribute  to  your  art.  I  am  only  eager 
to  see  that  art  deepen  and  widen." 

"  You  are  what?  I  see  now.  I  have  been 
coming  to  it  for  some  time,  and  now  I'm  there.  I 
told  you  long  ago  that  you  did  not  understand 
me,  and  now  I  repeat  it.  You  do  not  understand 
me,  and  it  isn't  possible  for  you  to  do  so.  You 
live  outside  of  the  world  of  art,  and  you  can't 
find  the  way  into  it.  You  misconceive  everything 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          181 

I  do,  and  my  greatest  successes  become  failures  in 
your  eyes.  Hereafter  I  wish  you  to  keep  your 
opinions  of  my  art  to  yourself." 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  prefer  those  of 
that  distinguished  connoisseur,  Mrs.  Harley  Man 
ners?" 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  fool.  You  make  me  lose 
my  temper,  and  that's  bad  for  my  voice.  Can't 
you  mind  your  own  affairs,  and  let  mine  alone? 
I  tell  you  that  you  are  incapable  of  understanding 
the  workings  of  the  world  of  art  or  the  mind  of 
a  great  artist." 

"  That  sounds  to  me  like  a  formal  declaration 
of  the  failure  of  our  marriage,  Leander,"  said 
Helen  very  gently. 

"  You  may  take  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  snarled 
the  great  tenor,  and,  flatly  turning  his  back  upon 
her,  he  strode  out  of  the  room. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  entered  the  half-dark 
apartment  of  Nagy  Bosanska.  The  light  which 
softly  glowed  through  it  was  a  rose  madder  tint, 
shot  with  a  shade  of  burnt  sienna.  A  strange, 
pallid  blood  color,  it  exerted  a  searching  influence 


1 82         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

on  his  vibrating  nerves.  He  stared  at  the  woman. 
She  lay  on  her  couch,  clad  in  a  sweeping  drapery 
of  thin  green,  which  fell  close  around  every  line 
of  her  symmetrical  body.  The  train  of  the  robe 
ran  out  on  the  rug  before  her  in  a  long  curve, 
and  the  picture  she  made  was  serpentine,  uncanny, 
fascinating.  She  seemed  a  daughter  of  the  Nile 
or  a  Rhine  maiden,  ready  to  lure  the  passing 
knight  to  the  depths  under  the  Loreleiberg.  Le- 
ander  stood  speechless  and  gazed  at  her,  while  she 
looked  back  at  him  with  an  inscrutable  tenderness 
in  her  green  eyes. 

What  is  the  mystery  of  the  flesh?  Or  is  it  a 
mystery?  Men  have  fallen  before  Delilah,  be 
fore  Cleopatra,  before  Salammbo,  before  Fulvia, 
who  saved  Rome,  before  Ninon,  the  immortal, 
and  even  before  Fanny  Legrand,  the  Carmen  of 
the  back  stairs.  What  destroyed  Samson,  An 
tony,  Matho,  or  Lentulus,  the  senator?  No,  it 
was  not  the  mere  lure  of  the  sense.  It  was  the 
irresistible  union  of  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  The 
mighty  workings  of  the  sex  power  in  the  women 
whose  sex  reigned  imperial  and  imperious — this 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          183 

was  the  force  which  gave  the  desire  of  men  do 
minion  over  their  souls  and  over  their  honor. 
This  was  the  force  which  laid  even  their  daily 
common  sense  to  voluptuous  sleep  upon  the  per 
fumed  pillows  of  white  breasts. 

For  the  elemental  working  of  the  sex  force  in 
woman  makes  her  great,  arouses  all  that  is 
splendid  in  her  blood,  all  that  is  majestic  in  her 
intellect.  With  this  she  becomes  a  queen,  sov 
ereign  mistress  of  a  man  or  of  men,  according 
to  the  bent  of  her  spiritual  genius.  The  woman 
whose  sex  instincts  are  only  half-developed  never 
reigns  at  all;  she  merely  marches  through  a  flat 
world  and  has  her  triumphs  in  the  drawing-room 
or  the  kitchen.  The  woman  whose  soul  burns 
itself  out  in  one  great  love,  and  whose  sex  force 
arises  to  its  demands,  is  glorified  into  a  world 
power.  She  whose  sex  impulse  sputters  first  for 
one  object  and  then  for  another,  is  only  a  local 
power,  for  she  lacks  the  foundation  of  universal 
greatness,  stability.  Still,  indeed,  she  is  great, 
for  she  is  the  flesh  and  the  devil;  and  wherever  she 
goes  the  gates  of  Eden  close  behind  her,  and  the 


1 84         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

doors  of  Hell  swing  wide  before  her.  And  she 
has  her  power  and  dominion,  and  men,  poor  fools, 
sell  their  souls  for  her  and  fancy  they  have  found 
the  foot  of  life's  rainbow. 

Leander  knew  Delilah  only  as  an  opera  char 
acter.  Of  the  others  he  knew  nothing.  Yet  he 
was  gazing  into  the  bottomless  deeps  of  Nagy's 
eyes,  where  dwelt  all  the  lost  souls  of  the  Deli- 
lahs,  the  Cleopatras,  and  the  Fulvias.  She 
could  no  more  help  adventuring  into  new  seas  of 
passion  than  could  a  hawk  help  pursuing  a  spar 
row.  The  child  of  Lilith,  the  incarnation  of  all 
those  who  of  old  were  the  world's  delight,  she 
burned  now  with  real  flame  for  this  new  thing, 
which  she  saw  approaching  the  borders  of  her  life. 
She  saw  herself  on  the  brink  of  a  new  love,  facing 
a  sleeping  soul  which  she  would  awaken. 

"  You  have  come,  mon  ami,"  she  said  in  low 
flute-like  tone;  "  you  have  waited  long." 

"  I  have  remembered  something  you  said  to  me 
when  I  was  last  here,"  said  Baroni. 

"Yes?"  she  responded,  with  an  exquisite 
rising  inflection;  "  I  know  what  it  was.  'When 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          185 

you  are  weary  and  sad,  and  need  to  be  understood, 
you  will  remember  that  Nagy  Bosanska  is  your 
friend.'  That  was  it,  was  it  not?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered  in  a  manner  half-reluctant 
But  it  was  a  part  of  Nagy's  magic  that  she  made 
men  say  what  was  in  their  hearts,  even  when  they 
most  desired  to  keep  it  there.  The  woman  made 
no  immediate  answer.  She  seemed  to  be  lost  in 
thought,  and  presently  she  shook  her  head  and 
sighed  deeply. 

"  I  have  found  it  impossible,  too,"  she  mur 
mured. 

"Found  what  impossible?"  asked  Leander 
with  astonishment  in  his  voice. 

'*  To  get  perfect  sympathy  and  understanding 
from  one  not  of  our  own  world." 

Nagy  looked  down  at  the  rug  and  sighed.  Le 
ander  leaned  over  her  and  gently  took  her  hand  in 
his. 

'  Why,  Nagy,  you  seem  unhappy." 

u  No,  Baroni,  no,  I  am  not  unhappy.  I  am, 
perhaps,  a  little,  just  a  little,  disappointed,  but  I 
could  be  unhappy  only — if  I  had  loved." 


1 86         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her,  and  for 
a  few  moments  there  was  a  silence,  after  which 
she  went  on  in  purling  low  tones : 

"  I  thought  I  had  found  one  who  would  be 
able  to  enter  into  my  art  and  to  grasp  it  from 
outside.  But  I  found  that  the  fool  was  thinking 
only  of  his  own  work,  a  silly,  stupid,  mechanic, 
who  tries  to  make  an  art  of  talking  about  art." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Leander,  suddenly  enlight 
ened.  ;(  That  damned  critic  fellow  is  the  most 
exasperating  idiot  on  earth.  Nagy,  I'm  amazed 
at  you.  How  could  you  take  a  fancy  to  him?  " 

"  Only  a  curiosity,  my  dear  Baroni,  only  a  curi 
osity.  It  was  he  who  was  serious.  I  had  to  send 
him  away.  He  could  not  understand.  And  now 
she  cannot  understand." 

"She?     Who?" 

She  smiled  up  at  him  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  think  you  once  forbade  me  to  discuss  her." 

Again  a  silence  fell  between  them.  Nagy 
broke  it. 

"  Only  an  artist  can  understand  an  artist." 

"  Of  course.     These  outside  people  have  wild 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          187 

notions.  They  make  me  weary.  They  talk  a  lot 
of  idiotic  poetry,  and  think  that  means  something 
practical  to  a  singer.  We  who  live  in  the  great 
world  of  the  theater  know  that  what  we  have  to 
do  is  to  keep  in  good  voice  and  sing.  We've  got 
to  look  out  for  our  success  with  the  public,  and 
that's  the  only  way  to  get  it." 

"  My  dear  Baroni,  you  are  wonderfully  young," 
said  Nagy  with  a  smile. 

"  Rubbish!     I'm " 

"  I  don't  mean  years.  They  have  meant 
nothing  to  you.  You  are  still  a  boy,  Baroni;  your 
soul  is  asleep,  and  it  is  such  a  splendid  soul 
that  I  long  to  see  it  awake  and  thrilling  the 
world."" 

"  How  is  it  to  be  awakened? — oh,  I  remember. 
I  asked  you  that  once,  and  you  told  me." 

"  Yes,  I  told  you  that  love  would  awaken  it." 

"  Well,  it  hasn't." 

"  No,  not  yet.     It  has  not  come  to  you  yet." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that — that — she  has 
never  loved  me?  " 

"  I  cannot  speak  for  her.     I  speak  of  you. 


1 88         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Love  has  not  come  to  you.  But  it's  close,  close, 
close." 

Something  in  her  voice  sent  a  shiver  through 
Leander.  He  remembered  again  how  he  had  felt 
when  he  had  been  in  that  same  room  before,  and 
he  then  had  fled.  Now  he  determined  to  know 
what  this  was  which  affected  him.  The  restrain 
ing  power  which  had  held  him  before  was  gone. 
Nagy  knew  it.  Wise  as  a  serpent,  she  felt  that 
her  hour  was  at  hand,  and  she  pulsated  with  swift 
little  throbs  of  that  indescribable  excitement  which 
told  her  that  the  incarnated  forces  within  her 
were  at  their  work. 

"  Nagy,"  said  Leander,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
asleep." 

"  Love  is  a  master,  not  a  servant,  Baroni." 

"  I  will  serve  him,"  said  Leander,  his  breath 
coming  fast.  "  Can't  you  teach  me  the  mysteries, 
Nagy?  You  are  very  wonderful,  I  think." 

She  was  silent,  and  he  touched  her  hand  with 
his  lips.  They  were  hot  and  dry.  Nagy  started 
and  shook  her  head. 

"  You  have  so  much  to  learn,  you  poor  boy. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         189 

You  are  not  half-grown.  But — I  think  I  shall 
like  you." 

She  put  up  a  hand  and  caressed  his  hair.  He 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  very  gently.  It  was 
all  so  quiet — so  apparently  passionless.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  decorous.  And  he  did  not 
know  that  it  was  the  will  of  the  woman  that  gov 
erned  the  situation. 

"  Leander,"  she  said  presently,  "  can  you  take 
me  to  dinner  and — afterward  come  back  here  and 
talk  about  it  to  me?  " 

And  thus  it  came  about  that,  an  hour  later, 
he  returned  and  took  her  to  dinner  in  a  restaurant 
where  he  was  sure  that  none  of  the  opera-house 
people  would  ever  go,  and  also  it  happened  that 
the  little  Madeleine  Piroux  and  her  faithful  Po- 
nitzky  had  gone  there,  also  to  be  quite  alone,  and, 
although  hidden  in  a  corner  behind  some  plants, 
they  saw  Nagy  and  Leander  pass  through  the  hall 
on  their  way  to  the  rear  room.  Ponitzky  smiled  a 
grim  smile. 

*  Too  bad,  ma  petite  ange,"  he  said  coolly. 
"  I'm  afraid  your  chances  with  the  Baroni  are 


i9o         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

very  small,  now  that  the  Bosanska  has  taken  him 
in  hand." 

Madeleine  shook  her  pretty  head. 

"Pestel  What  shall  I  care?  I  am  not  in 
love  with  him." 

"  Only  because  he  never  gave  you  more  than 
a  kindly  look,"  said  Ponitzky,  who  had  always 
been  uneasy  about  the  tenor.     "  But  he  is  in  safe . 
hands  now  for  a   time.     He  will  not  be  much 
use  to  you  after  she  is  through  with  him." 

"  She  will  destroy  him  body  and  soul,"  said 
Madeleine,  "  or  she  will  make  him  the  greatest 
singer  the  world  has  ever  known." 

"  That  is  what  the  English  call  a  rather  tall 
order,  isn't  it?"  sneered  Ponitzky. 

"  Not  for  her,"  she  answered,  and  then,  in  her 
own  heart,  added,  "  nor  for  him." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

T  T  was  years  since  "  L'Africaine "  had  been 
^  given,  and  the  opera  house  was  in  a  state  of 
excitement.  It  was  conceded  that  the  cast  was 
one  of  unusual  strength,  and  Comparelli,  the 
genius  of  the  baton,  was  to  conduct.  It  was  ru 
mored  that  he  was  in  a  diabolical  frame  of  mind. 
All  kinds  of  reasons  were  given  to  account  for  it, 
but  little  Madeleine  Piroux  smiled  contemptuously 
when  Ponitzky  repeated  some  of  them  to  her. 

"  They  know  nothing.  Only  Nagy  can  tell  the 
real  reason." 

"  Then  you  mean  that  she  has  quite  thrown  him 
over?  The  tenor  wins.  Parbleu !  I  should 
not  like  to  sing  the  *  Paradiso  '  air  to  Compa- 
relli's  accompaniment  to-night." 

"Fool!  You  know  that  Comparelli  conducts 
better  when  he  is  in  a  vicious  temper." 

It  was,  indeed,  to  be  a  great  performance,  with 

Nagy  as  Selika,  Baroni  as  Vasco  di  Gama,  Le- 

191 


192         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

maire,  the  great  French  barytone,  as  Nelusko, 
Madeleine  as  Inez,  the  redoubtable  Ponitzky  him 
self  as  Don  Pedro,  and  the  French  bass,  Caron, 
as  both  the  priests,  Catholic  and  Brahmin.  Tre- 
montini  was  certain  that  he  should  have  been  the 
Nelusko,  but  Comparelli  sniffed  him  out  of  ex 
istence. 

Behind  the  scenes  there  was  the  customary 
bustle.  Psychological  experts  would  have  found 
all  varieties  of  deep  and  hidden  emotions  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  singers  as  they  smeared  themselves 
with  cosmetics  or  gummed  "  imperials "  upon 
their  lordly  chins,  but,  as  a  plain  matter  of  fact, 
their  real  emotions  were  mainly  those  of  the  one 
sort  who  were  nervous  about  reappearing  in  old 
roles  long  unpractised,  and  those  of  the  other, 
buoyantly  confident  of  one  more  brilliant  suc 
cess. 

The  technical  director,  Carroll,  swore  softly, 
because  he  hated  the  cheap,  yet  bothersome,  stage 
effects  of  "  L'Africaine."  Storchi,  the  chorus 
master,  who  was  fat  and  short,  exuded  vast 
streams  of  perspiration,  as  he  rolled  about  among 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          193 

his  children,  and  scolded  or  besought,  according 
to  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  requirements  of 
the  case.  Manelli,  the  ballet  master,  cursed 
Meyerbeer  for  the  unterpsichorean  character  of 
the  ballet  music,  and  vowed  that  his  ensembles 
would  go  for  nothing,  and  that  the  public  would 
not  know  that  it  was  not  his  fault. 

One  who  had  never  been  concerned  in  an 
operatic  revival  would  have  been  sure  that  nothing 
would  go  right,  that  "  il  gran  consiglio  "  would 
never  convene,  that  the  high  priest  would  be  Cath 
olic  when  he  ought  to  be  Brahmin,  and  sing  "  Ite, 
missa  est  "  in  Madagascar,  that  the  ship  would 
never  be  stormed,  and  that  the  manzanilla  tree 
would  shed  cocoanuts  upon  the  stage.  Yet  the 
inexorable  operation  of  that  extraordinary  force 
called  "  routine  "  brought  order  out  of  seeming 
chaos,  and  the  various  parts  of  the  complicated 
machine  started  running  in  a  comparatively  smooth 
manner. 

But  it  was  not  a  pleasant  atmosphere  behind 
the  scenes.  The  undercurrent  of  first-night  irri 
tation  was  unmistakable,  and  only  some  small  im- 


194         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

pulse  was  needed  to  bring  about  a  childish  outburst 
of  the  "  artistic  temperament."  Nothing  hap 
pened  in  the  course  of  the  first  scene.  The  grand 
council  chanted  its  sonorous  deliberations,  and  the 
priestly  Lemaire  pontificated  with  his  customary 
display  of  low  tones  and  wide-armed  gesture.  Le- 
ander  responded  brilliantly  to  the  familiar  demand 
of  the  noble  Don  as  to  why  he  wished  so  ardently 
to  plow  unknown  seas,  and  his  high-flown  proc 
lamation  of  his  ambition  to  incur  immortality 
moved  the  gallery,  the  standees,  who  understood 
its  meaning,  and  such  box  occupants  as  had  so 
far  confessed  their  lack  of  social  duties  as  to  ap 
pear  early  in  their  seats.  Nagy,  the  most  lissome, 
flashing-eyed,  sinuous,  and  seductive  of  savage 
queens,  had  stood  defiant  in  the  presence  of  the 
poor  occidentals,  upon  whom  she  looked  with  con 
tempt,  and  had  given  an  indefinite  promise  of 
greater  wonders  to  come  in  the  prison  scene. 

Philip  Studley  sat  in  his  orchestra-chair  from 
the  rising  of  the  curtain,  and  endeavored  manfully 
to  sense  Nagy  and  all  her  doings  as  if  she  had 
never  ceased  to  be  what  she  should  have  been 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         195 

to  him,  merely  a  subject  for  discussion.     He  drew 
a  long  breath  of  relief  as  he  felt,  after  her  en 
trance,  that  it  was  not  going  to  be  so  hard,  after 
all.     He  studied  her  with  a  coolness  which,  in 
deed,  quite  astonished  him.     The  footlights  and 
the   orchestra   pit  made   a   deep   and  impassable 
chasm    between    them.      The    costume    and    the 
make-up  placed  a  curtain  of  unreality  there.     He 
could  not  regard  this  tufted  savage  as  the  throb 
bing  creature  whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms.    He 
was  under  the  spell  of  the  illusion  of  the  theater. 
Even  he,  the  professional  chronicler  of  incidents, 
could    not    wholly    escape    the    working    of    that 
strange  fantasy.     There  was  much  applause  after 
the  choral  chantings  of  the  first  act.      Philip  went 
out  into  the  corridor  and  stretched  himself.     Be 
hind   the   scenes  the   unpleasant  smell  of   grease 
paint  increased.     The  singers  hastened  from  the 
stage    to    their    dressing-rooms.      Their    painted 
countenances  glistened  with  streams  of  fluent  per 
spiration.     Their  musty  costumes,  also  moistened, 
assisted  the  paint  in  adding  variations  to  the  de 
pressing  theme  of  stage  air.     They  were  utterly 


196         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

unpoetic  persons.  They  were  disillusions  of  the 
most  unhappy  type.  The  most  palpitating  of  all 
matinee  girls  would  have  shrunk  from  the  open 
arms  of  the  great  Baroni.  The  most  ardent 
pursuer  of  stage  beauties  would  have  drawn  back 
from  a  close  inspection  of  the  incomparable  Mile. 
Bosanska. 

"  Pouf !  "  exclaimed  this  same  incomparable  so 
prano,  as  she  rushed  off  the  stage,  where  she  had 
waited  after  her  exit  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the 
end  of  the  act;  "pouf!  The  idiot  of  a  Meyer 
beer  !  What  an  entrance  for  a  prima  donna !  " 

'  You  get  your  chance  in  the  next  act,  don't 
you?"  said  the  stage  manager,  who  was  laugh 
ing  mildly  at  her  vehemence.  "  The  first  act  is 
the  tenor's,  and  it  is  pretty  nearly  the  end  of  him, 
too,  isn't  it?" 

At  this  instant  Nagy  was  out  in  the  hallway 
beyond  the  stage  and  leading  to  certain  dressing- 
rooms,  and  here  she  was  almost  swept  from  her 
feet  by  the  rush  of  Mrs.  Harley  Manners.  In 
those  days  only  a  very  few  favored  persons  had 
the  entree  to  the  sacred  regions  behind  the  scenes. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         197 

The  newspaper  men  and  the  directors,  composer's 
agents,  and  some  few  similar  dignitaries,  were 
on  the  door  list  of  the  portal  between  the  stage 
and  the  "  front  of  the  house,"  but  one  of  Mrs. 
Harley  Manners'  specialties  was  to  be  where  she 
had  no  business,  and  she  had  a  way  of  penetrating 
the  stage  region  even  in  the  course  of  a  first-night 
performance. 

"  Oh,  Mile.  Bosanska,"  she  exclaimed.  "  How 
wonderful  you  are !  Your  costume  and  your  act 
ing!  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  really  feel. 
You  have  reawakened  for  me  the  visions  of 
Cleopatra." 

"  But  contain  yourself,  Madame.  I  have  yet 
done  nothing.  The  first  scene  belongs  to  the 
tenor.  Save  your  raptures  till  after  the  next  act. 
Au  revoir." 

Nagy,  who  could  be  intolerably  rude  when  she 
wished  to,  undulated  down  the  hallway,  exhibiting 
a  very  graceful  back  to  the  discomfited  Mrs.  Har 
ley  Manners,  who  vainly  sought  for  Leandro  in 
order  that  she  might  say  things  to  him  or  ask  him 
unanswerable  questions.  Nagy,  however,  knew 


i98         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

that  Leandro  was  still  taking  curtain  calls,  and 
that  he  would  find  a  way  to  dodge  the  omnipresent 
woman. 

When  Nagy  turned  her  rounded  shoulders  on 
Mrs.  Harley  Manners,  she  found  herself  con 
fronted  by  two  directors  of  the  opera  company, 
men  in  exquisitely  perfect  evening  clothes,  and  fin 
ished  for  social  use  till  they  positively  shone  with 
"  position."  Nagy  looked  them  both  up  and 
down  with  undisguised  admiration.  She  was  a 
lawless  and  ungovernable  little  creature,  and  she 
had  an  inexpressible  contempt  for  men  whom  she 
regarded  as  mere  appendages  to  large  fortunes. 
The  various  attempts  of  money  magnates  to  win 
the  favor  of  Nagy  had  met  with  disastrous  fail 
ure.  The  creatures  could  not  even  begin  to  un 
derstand  her,  but  they  adored  her  extraordinary 
physical  charms.  And  now  these  two  stood  be 
fore  her,  smiling  their  elegant  smiles  and  talking 
their  habitual  prattle. 

"  Most  charming,  indeed,  Mile.  Bosanska," 
said  one;  "you  are  really  marvelous  in  costume 
and  make-up." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          199 

"Indeed,  quite  so,"  said  the  other:  "and  this 
make-up  becomes  you,  too." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much,"  answered  Nagy 
demurely.  u  But  I  can  return  your  compliments. 
You  are  both  quite  perfect  in  your  costume  and 
make-up,  too.  I'm  sure  you  must  look  interest 
ing  in  your  boxes,  but  I  regret  that  I  can't  see  you 
from  the  stage." 

And  the  impudent  beauty  turned  the  flawless 
shoulders  on  them,  too,  and  glided  away  down 
the  hall.  Presently,  when  the  discomfited  di 
rectors  had  passed  out  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
Leander  came  through  the  iron  door  leading  from 
the  stage  to  the  dressing-rooms,  and  found  him 
self  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  Madeleine  Piroux. 
She  had  waited  to  have  one  fleeting  word  with 
him. 

"  You  are  in  the  best  of  voice,  my  friend.  You 
will  have  another  triumph." 

"  And  you,  too,  Mademoiselle.  You  are 
looking  your  best  and  singing  like  a  little 
angel." 

And  he  went  on,  leaving  her  smiling  rather  bit- 


200         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

terly  as  she  realized  how  much  his  praise  might 
mean  to  her  if  it  only  meant  a  little  more  to  him. 
From  up  on  the  second  floor  of  the  dressing-rooms 
came  the  rumble  of  Lemaire's  voice.  He  was  not 
satisfied  with  his  recitatives  in  the  first  scene,  and 
was  vocalizing  to  warm  up.  Ponitzky  was  roar 
ing  like  a  bull,  and  occasionally  pausing  to  swear 
in  indescribable  Polish.  He  had  flatted  badly  in 
the  first  scene.  So  had  Caron,  who  was  cough 
ing  and  sputtering  and  cursing  the  remains  of  a 
cold  which  he  had  thought  was  entirely  gone. 
Every  one  except  Nagy  and  Leander  was  in  a 
tempestuous  humor.  But  Leander  found  Nagy 
waiting  for  him  in  front  of  his  door.  She  smiled 
softly  and  murmured : 

"  It  will  be  very  good  to-night.  I  shall  cer 
tainly  kiss  you  as  you  sleep  in  the  prison." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  forget,"  responded  Lean 
der  with  ardor  in  his  voice. 

"  I  shall  talk  to  you  after  the  next  act." 

"  Where?" 

"Here.  Do  you  find  it  objectionable?  Are 
you  afraid  of  the  scandal?" 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         201 

"What,  in  an  opera  house?  Is  there  any 
thing  else  in  one?  " 

He  laughed,  and  she  glided  off  to  her  dress 
ing-room,  which  was  further  along  the  same  hall. 
Leander  entered  his  room  and  sat  down  to  wait 
for  the  next  act.  He  was  well  pleased.  The 
house  was  packed.  He  had  been  enthusiastically 
received,  much  more  so  than  Nagy,  for  many  of 
the  subscribers  failed  to  recognize  her  in  the  make 
up  of  a  queen  of  Meyerbeerian  Madagascar.  Peo 
ple  came  and  went  in  the  passage  outside  of  his 
dressing-room,  but  they  made  no  attempt  to  in 
trude  upon  him.  His  dresser,  long  trained  in 
the  cunning  of  opera  houses,  stood  on  guard  at 
the  door  while  Leander  lay  back  in  his  easy-chair, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  permitted  his  whole  body  to 
relax.  It  was  his  way  of  resting  in  the  entr'actes. 
The  dressing-room  was  not  a  reposeful  retreat,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  close  one's  eyes.  On  one  side 
was  a  long  shelf  covered  with  bottles,  boxes, 
brushes,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  "  make-up." 
Above  this  shelf  hung  a  mirror,  and  on  each  side 
of  the  mirror  was  a  glaring  electric  light.  On  the 


202         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

opposite  side  of  the  room  was  a  full-length  mirror 
in  which  the  tenor  might  observe  his  figure  when 
arrayed  for  the  stage.  There  was  a  closet  in  one 
corner,  two  or  three  hard-looking  chairs,  a  ragged 
rug  on  the  floor,  and  rows  of  hooks  for  hanging 
up  clothing.  There  was  none  of  that  luxury 
which  the  Sunday  newspapers  sometimes  de 
scribed. 

As  Leander  lay  limp  in  his  one  comfortable 
chair,  he  suddenly  chanced  upon  a  resemblance  be 
tween  the  story  of  the  opera  and  the  entrance  of 
Nagy  into  his  life.  Selika  followed  Vasco  di 
Gama  into  a  strange  land,  and  afterward  he  went 
with  her  to  her  own  country,  a  kingdom  over  the 
seas,  enchanted,  magical,  mystic,  almost  fabulous, 
where  vivid  colors  filled  the  eye,  and  burning 
thoughts  the  soul.  Swimming  in  this  flood  of 
tropical  glory,  Vasco  di  Gama  forgot  all  but  the 
splendor  of  Selika's  eyes. 

"'  E  del  tuo  ciglio  o  ciel  il  divorante  ardor 

Come  di  fiamma  un  raggio  passo  nel  mio  seno. ' ' 

He  hummed  the  music  in  a  half-whisper  and 
smiled.  Would  it  be  so?  Would  Nagy  be  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         203 

Selika  of  his  life,  and  Helen  the  pale  and  uninter 
esting  Inez?  He  forgot  for  the  moment  that 
Inez  carried  off  Vasco,  after  all,  while  Selika,  de 
spairing,  died  under  the  manzanilla  tree.  But 
Nagy  would  surely  never  do  anything  so  weak  as 
that.  Just  then  the  dresser  stood  aside  and  per 
mitted  little  Madeleine  Piroux  to  put  her  head 
into  the  room.  She  could  not  remain  away. 
There  was  a  slow  pain  dragging  at  her  gentle 
heart,  and  yet  she  could  not  refrain  from  twisting 
the  knife  in  the  wound.  She  had  no  hope  that, 
like  Inez,  whom  she  impersonated,  she  would  find 
her  suspicions  that  he  loved  Selika  to  be  ground 
less. 

"  Are  you  rested,  Baroni?"  she  asked  softly. 

"  Yes,  I'm  ready.     But  we're  not  called  yet" 

At  that  moment  Nagy  came  slowly  through  the 
hall,  and  paused  just  behind  Madeleine. 

"  What  a  charming  picture  you  make  together," 
she  murmured.  "  It  is  a  grand  pity  that  I  must 
separate  you,  is  it  not?  " 

Madeleine  turned  and  gazed  directly  into 
Nagy's  eyes.  She  shrugged  her  pretty  French 


204         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

shoulders,  and  walked  quietly  away.  Nagy  low 
ered  her  head  and  sent  from  under  her  brows  a 
strange  glance  from  the  wonderful  green  eyes. 

"Foolish  child,  is  she  not?"  she  said  to 
Baroni. 

"  She's  a  nice  little  girl,  Nagy;  that's  all,  and 
you — you  are  a  woman." 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Baroni.  I  am 
not  troubled.  But  it  is  bad  for  her.  She  would 
sing  better  if  she  loved  Ponitzky — the  great 

pig." 

The  call  boy  appeared  at  this  moment,  and 
summoned  them  for  the  prison  scene.  Leander 
walked  languidly  down  to  the  stage  and  stretched 
himself  upon  the  couch  in  the  alcove,  while  Nagy 
idly  extended  her  hand  to  the  property  man  to 
receive  the  fan  with  which  she  was  to  soothe  the 
sleeping  Vasco.  It  was  in  this  scene  that  the 
smoldering  fires  of  Nagy's  temperament  sprang 
to  flame.  The  audience  suddenly  awakened  to  the 
fact  that  there  was  a  tremendous  force  of  char 
acter  in  the  savage  queen,  and  between  her  and 
the  crushed  and  fragile  Inez,  who  found  herself 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         205 

enmeshed  in  the  toils  of  fate,  the  tragic  contrast 
was  moving. 

The  curtain  fell  amid  a  storm  of  plaudits. 
Nagy  and  Madeleine  went  together  before  the 
audience.  Nagy  led  the  little  French  soprano 
most  gracefully,  and,  when  in  the  center  of  the 
stage,  calmly  dropped  the  hand,  turned  her  back 
on  Madeleine,  and  appropriated  all  the  applause 
to  herself.  She  did  not  so  much  as  bestow  a  frag 
ment  of  a  glance  on  either  Baroni  or  Ponitzky, 
who  had  rather  humbly  followed  the  two  women, 
and  were  now  awkwardly  standing  at  either  side. 
It  was  a  characteristic  opera-house  scene,  but  only 
a  few  reporters  and  other  long-practised  observers 
detected  the  significance  of  it.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  half  a  dozen  of  the  news-gatherers  were 
on  the  stage  striving  to  find  out  whether  there 
was  a  "  story  "  in  the  slighting  of  Mile.  Piroux 
by  Mile.  Bosanska,  but  they  could  get  no  facts. 

"  I  quarrel  with  this  angel!  "  exclaimed  Nagy. 
"  She  is  an  angel,  is  she  not?" 

This  question  was  shot  full  in  the  face  of  the 
uncomfortable  Ponitzky,  who  gallantly  answered: 


20.6         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

u  A  real  angel;  indeed,  our  only  angel,  is  it  not 
so,Nagy?" 

And  thereupon  the  big  basso  retired  with  a  pro 
found  chuckle.  The  yellowest  reporters  per 
sisted  for  a  time,  but  finally  abandoned  the  sub 
ject,  and  hastened  away  to  the  press-room  to  write 
it  up  anyhow.  Nagy,  true  to  her  promise,  went 
to  Leander's  dressing-room  to  talk  to  him,  as 
neither  of  them  had  any  change  to  make  till  after 
the  next  scene.  It  was  not  long  afterward  that 
Philip  Studley  passed  through  the  door  between 
the  auditorium  and  the  stage.  The  impresario 
had  sent  a  message  to  him,  asking  for  the  priv 
ilege  of  a  few  minutes'  conversation  in  his  office, 
which  was  in  the  rear  part  of  the  building.  Philip 
was  not  at  all  familiar  with  the  region  behind 
the  scenes,  and  he  quite  easily  went  astray.  In 
stead  of  passing  down  the  corridor  leading  to  the 
offices,  he  turned  into  the  hallway  upon  which  the 
dressing-rooms  opened.  It  was  at  this  un- 
propitious  instant  that  Leander's  dresser,  stand 
ing  on  guard  outside  the  door,  spied  a  certain 
chorus  damsel  in  whom  he  took  a  particular  in- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         207 

terest,  and  he  slipped  a  few  paces  down  the 
passageway  to  speak  a  word  in  her  somewhat  too 
red  ear.  And  thus  it  happened  that  when  Philip 
saw  a  door  on  his  left  hand  partly  open,  and 
thought  it  must  be  the  one  which  he  was  seeking, 
he  walked  into  it,  found  himself  in  the  dressing- 
room  of  the  tenor,  and  beheld  that  famous 
artist  holding  Mile.  Nagy  Bosanska  in  a  close 
embrace. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  tense  and  un 
comfortable  silence.  It  was  Nagy  who  first  re 
covered  composure. 

"  This  is,  indeed,  an  unexpected  honor,  Mr. 
Studley.  May  we  inquire  how  we  came  to  de 
serve  it?  " 

"  I  have  very  few  words  to  say  to  either  one 
of  you.  I  had  no  knowledge  that  this  was  yqur 
trysting-place.  I  was  trying  to  go  to  the  office. 
I  lost  my  way.  I  do  not  apologize.  You, 
Mademoiselle,  know  quite  well  why  I  do  not.  I 
am  delighted  to  gain  some  insight  into  your  true 
nature.  It  is— 

"  That's    enough   of   that   sort   of   talk,"    ex- 


208         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

claimed  Leander  in  a  low  tone;  "if  you've  any 
thing  to  say  that's  to  the  point,  say  it  and  get 
out;  but  omit  Mile.  Bosanska's  name,  do  you  un 
derstand?  " 

"  Perfectly.  I  presume  you  are  authorized  to 
protect  Mile.  Bosanska?  I  congratulate  you." 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  don't  try  to  be  sar 
castic;  it  does  not  suit  you  at  all.  And  my  posi 
tion  in  relation  to  Mile.  Bosanska  is  none  of  your 
damned  business." 

'  That,  my  dear  Mr.  Baroni,  is  pure  assump 
tion  on  your  part.  I  regard  as  my  business  any 
thing  which  is  likely  to  affect  the  welfare  of  a 
woman  much  superior  to  Mile.  Bosanska,  a  woman 
who  has  honored  me  with  her  friendship  for 
years,  a  woman— 

;(  Who  chances  to  be  my  wife.  You  certainly 
do  not  lack  for  assurance.  One  might  think  you 
the  authorized  protector  of  Mrs.  Baroni." 

'  Why,  you  cad!  "  said  Philip  hotly;  "  you  are 
willing  to  make  innuendoes  against  your  own  wife, 
but  you  demand  that  the  position  of  Mile.  Bo 
sanska  be  not  discussed.  I  am  sorry  to  have 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         209 

spoken  to  you  at  all.  I  have  certainly  lowered 
myself  by  doing  so." 

"  You  get  out  of  my  room !  "  cried  Leander, 
quite  losing  his  temper  and  moving  toward  Philip. 
But  Nagy  sprang  before  him  and  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck. 

"  Stop,  stop,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  you  must 
bear  with  this  young  man,  my  dear  Baroni.  His 
emotions  are  in  a  state  of  much  confusion.  He 
is  not  master  of  himself.  He  really  is  quite  at 
sea.  He  has  been  most  unfortunate  in  his  rela 
tions  with  women,  and  he  does  not  see  clearly. 
Of  course  he  will  go  away." 

"  I  see  many  things  much  more  clearly  than  I 
used  to,"  said  Philip;  "  I  have  had  some  instruc 
tion  from  a  profound  mistress  of  the  art  of  life." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  for  the  moment,"  said  Le 
ander,  suddenly  beginning  to  laugh.  u  I  remem 
ber  now.  He  aspired  to  the  position  which  he 
now  so  delicately  charges  me  with  occupying.  But 
*  la  commedia  e  finita,'  so  far  as  you  are  con 
cerned,  my  dear  young  friend." 

"  You  speak  truly,"  said  Philip,  who  had  partly 


210         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

regained  his  composure.  "  I  trust  that  in  your 
own  case  it  will  not  be  something  worse  than  a 
comedy.  Good-evening." 

The  young  man  retired  with  an  approach  to 
dignity,  while  Leander  and  Nagy  stood  looking 
at  each  other  inquiringly.  Nagy  slowly  shook  her 
head. 

4  You  see,  Leandro,  he  was  quite  impossible; 
but  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  him.  He 
seems  always  to  be  unsuccessful  in  love.  Poor  in 
fant!  It  is  so  foolish  of  him  to  adore  your 
wife." 

Leander  stood  in  reflection  for  a  few  moments. 

"  I  can't  imagine  Helen  giving  any  serious  con 
sideration  to  a  prig  like  that,"  he  said. 

"  Would  it  matter  greatly  if  she  did?  " 

In  his  heart  Leander  felt  that  it  did.  He  did 
not  relish  the  idea  of  Helen's  finding  comfort  so 
easily.  But  when  he  looked  into  Nagy's  liquid 
eyes  and  read  what  he  saw  there,  he  tossed  aside 
all  reflection. 

"Perhaps  it  wouldn't  matter  at  all,"  he  said; 
u  some  time  or  other  there  is  sure  to  be  an  ex- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         211 

plosion,  I  suppose.  Things  can't  go  on  this 
way." 

"  And  nothing  else  at  all  counts,"  murmured 
Nagy,  with  her  lips  close  to  his  cheek,  "  so  long  as 
you  and  I  are  together,  dear." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  be  clear  to  Leander  that 
it  would  be  better  if  the  empty  pretense  of  his 
married  life  were  to  come  to  an  end  right  away. 
What  business  had  Studley  to  act  as  if  interposing 
between  him  and  Helen?  Leander  suddenly  felt 
that  he  was  badly  used,  and  he  hugged  the  idea  to 
his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV 

cause  of  complaint,  once  domiciled  in  the 
tenor's  soul,  acted  as  such  cherished  ideas 
generally  do.  It  behaved  like  the  genie  who  was 
let  out  of  the  box  and  spread  to  such  propor 
tions  that  he  obscured  the  heavens.  True,  this 
particular  evil  one  did  not  spoil  Leander's  Vasco 
di  Gama,  but  as  soon  as  the  final  curtain  had  fallen 
he  developed  with  amazing  rapidity. 

Helen  sat  in  her  orchestra  stall  and  watched 
the  performance  with  a  dull  pain  at  her  heart. 
She  never  went  behind  the  scenes  any  more.  She 
disliked  the  atmosphere;  she  disliked  the  singers. 
Their  whole  attitude  toward  what  they  called 
their  "  art "  discouraged  her.  And  it  hurt  her 
to  think  that  Leander  dwelt  in  this  surrounding, 
and  that  he  was  thoroughly  contented  in  it.  She 
listened  to  the  golden  tones  of  his  magnificent 
voice,  and  smiled  when  the  audience  burst  into 


212 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         213 

rapturous  applause.  She  knew  that  Leander 
thoroughly  understood  his  instrument,  and  that 
he  played  upon  it  with  a  master's  technique.  But 
she  also  knew  that  in  the  perfect  placing  of  his 
tones,  in  the  exquisite  finish  of  his  phrasing,  and 
in  the  elegant  disposition  of  his  nuances,  lay  for 
Leander  the  whole  of  his  art. 

It  was  no  triumphant  evening  for  her  when  he 
carried  people  off  their  feet  by  his  delivery  of  the 
"  Paradiso."  She  hated  the  aria,  because  of  its 
claptrap  devices  and  its  superficially  clever  appeal 
to  the  gallery.  She  wished  that  Leander  would 
sing  real  music.  She  could  not  refuse  the  tribute 
of  admiration  to  Nagy.  Meyerbeer  might  be 
only  theatrical  tinsel,  but  the  gipsy's  tempera 
ment  was  real.  She  vitalized  the  empty  measures 
with  real  emotion.  Helen  recognized  it,  and  said 
to  herself,  "  She  is  a  greater  artist  than  he."  And 
then  she  thought  of  the  rumors  she  had  heard 
about  his  attentions  to  Nagy. 

"  No,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  there  can  be 
nothing  substantial  in  any  of  it.  Leander  is  too 
self-centered  to  develop  an  infatuation  for  any 


214         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

one  but  himself.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  not 
be  a  good  thing  for  him  to  conceive  a  passion  for 
the  strange  Hungarian.  I  cannot  pierce  his  shell 
of  Self.  If  she  should  do  so,  he  might  discover 
his  own  soul.  For  there  is  one  to  discover.  I 
have  tried  to  awaken  it  in  vain.  And  yet  God 
knows  that  I  have  given  him  what  no  other  woman 


can." 


And  as  she  sat  thus  thinking  she  was  divinely  • 
adorable.  There  was  a  sweet  humidity  in  her 
beautiful  eyes,  and  a  gentle  flush  on  her  delicate 
cheek,  as  she  recalled  to  herself  the  intensity  of 
some  exquisite  moments  now  unhappily  long  past. 
She  fervently  desired  to  bring  them  back,  but  she 
could  not  discover  the  way,  for  her  kisses  fell  dead 
upon  Leander's  lips,  and  her  embraces  lax  upon 
his  breast. 

She  did  not  wait  for  him  after  the  performance. 
She  had  never  made  a  practice  of  that.  In  the 
early  days  of  the  season  she  had  sometimes  waited, 
and  they  had  ridden  home  together  in  her  car, 
Leander  well  pleased  with  himself  and  his  even 
ing's  success,  she  trying  to  lead  the  conversation 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         215 

away  from  the  endless  theme,  but  in  vain.  They 
had  both  insensibly  grown  weary  of  it,  and  Lean- 
der  had  begun  to  invent  excuses  for  going  home 
alone.  So  she  accepted  the  situation,  and  rode 
away  with  some  woman  friend  whom  she  had  in 
vited  to  the  opera.  On  this  night  she  went  alone, 
and,  as  the  car  turned  into  the  Avenue,  she  gazed 
listlessly  out  of  the  window  at  the  wet  and  shining 
street. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  the  Avenue,  though 
crowded  with  whirring  cars,  had  a  dour  and 
depressing  aspect.  The  shops  were  all  dark,  and 
shadows  fell  from  their  gloomy  fronts  across  the 
bedraggled  pavement.  Here  and  there  a 
dwelling,  still  dignified  among  the  impudent  in 
truders  from  the  world  of  trade,  shed  a  faint  yel 
low  ray  from  the  transom  or,  perhaps,  even 
showed  illumination  in  some  of  its  spacious  win 
dows.  Pedestrians  tramped  heavily  along  the 
sidewalks  with  bowed  heads  and  hidden  faces. 
The  fine,  penetrating  rain,  which  was  swept  in 
from  the  grim  Atlantic  by  a  chill  easterly  wind, 
searched  every  corner  and  cranny.  Even  in  her 


2i6         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

well-appointed  car  Helen  felt  the  touch  of  its 
dampness.  She  was  glad  when  the  vehicle  rolled 
up  to  the  entrance  of  the  great  hotel,  and  she  was 
able  to  go  to  her  comfortable  apartment. 

It  was  not  just  what  she  wished.  If  she  had  en 
joyed  her  own  way,  she  would  have  had  a  house 
and  servants,  a  real  home.  But  Leander  had 
wished  to  live  in  a  hotel.  It  was  not  worth  while, 
he  thought,  to  take  a  house  just  for  a  season,  and 
she  had  desired  to  please  him.  So  there  they  had 
been,  and  as  his  demeanor  toward  her  had 
changed,  so  she  had  felt  her  solitude  all  the  more. 
She  entered  her  drawing-room  and,  letting  her 
wraps  fall  into  the  ready  arms  of  her  maid,  sank 
into  a  corner  of  the  sofa. 

"  Louise,"  she  said,  "  you  may  bring  me  my 
drink  here." 

The  maid  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  room, 
and  presently  returned  with  some  biscuits  and  a 
little  silver  urn.  Helen  had  early  formed  the 
habit  of  having  supper  before  retiring.  She  had 
formerly  waited  always  for  Leander,  but  now  his 
movements  after  the  opera  were  too  uncertain. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         217 

Sometimes  he  came  directly  home,  but  quite  as 
often  he  went  to  a  restaurant  or  some  club.  On 
this  particular  evening  he  reached  the  apartment 
about  an  hour  after  Helen.  He  went  directly  to 
their  room.  Helen  was  sitting  by  a  small  table, 
clad  in  a  silk-and-lace  peignoir.  She  was  prepared 
for  retiring,  but  she  had  felt  sleepless  and  unready 
to  go  to  bed.  She  was  nervous,  she  could  not 
tell  why;  but  she  seemed  indefinitely  to  expect 
something.  So  she  sat  in  the  bedroom  trying 
vainly  to  read.  She  and  Leander  occupied  the 
same  room,  for  neither  of  them  believed  in  that 
singular  form  of  marriage  in  which  the  husband 
occasionally  visits  his  wife's  chamber,  with  an  un 
expected  demand  that  she  accept  his  embraces  as 
she  might  accept  lightning  from  a  clear  sky.  Le 
ander  and  Helen  had  never  discussed  the  matter, 
but  when  he  had  arranged  the  renting  of  tHeir 
apartment,  he  had  chosen  one  in  which  each  could 
have  a  separate  dressing-room,  with  their  bedroom 
between.  Leander  entered  from  his  dressing- 
room,  and  Helen  quietly  rose  from  her  seat,  went 
over  to  him,  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 


218         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

kissed  him.  He  accepted  the  kiss  passively,  and 
then  said: 

"  Why  haven't  you  gone  to  bed?  " 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sleepy,  Leander;  indeed,  I  am 
much  too  wakeful." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.     Nothing  serious." 

Leander  passed  into  his  dressing-room  and 
changed  from  his  dress  coat  into  a  loose  jacket. 

u  How  did  you  like  the  performance?"  he 
asked  when  he  returned. 

"  I  thought  it  was  very  good,  indeed,"  answered 
Helen  in  a  rather  dull  tone. 

Leander  looked  at  her  suspiciously  for  a  mo 
ment.  The  expression  in  his  eyes  was  not  a  pretty 
one.  Then  he  said  in  a  keen  tone : 

"  See  anything  of  your  particular  friend  Stud- 
ley  to-night?  " 

Helen  glanced  up,  rather  startled  by  the  ques 
tion  and  his  manner,  and  this  only  served  to  deepen 
his  suspicions. 

"  Why,  yes,  Leander,  of  course.  Philip  al 
ways  comes  and  says  a  few  words  to  me  when  I 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         219 

am  at  the  opera.     He  is  one  of  my  oldest  and,  I 
think,  my  best  friends." 
"  Is  he,  really?" 

Leander's  tone  was  bitter  with  sneering  innu 
endo.  Helen,  however,  appeared  not  to  notice 
this. 

"  Yes,  he  has  always  been  a  good  friend  to  me. 
I  wonder  that  you  do  not  recall  that  you  desired 
me  to  see  that  this  friendship  did  not  wane.  I 
was  not  quite  sure  of  your  meaning  at  the  time." 

"  And  now  you  are.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ? 
Well,  let  me  tell  you  now  that  I  no  longer  desire 
that  you  keep  this  friendship  warm.  The  fellow 
is  no  friend  of  mine,  and  you  know  it." 

"  I  certainly  know  nothing  of  the  kind,  Lee.  I 
am  sure  he  admires  you  greatly." 

"Is  it  evidence  of  his  admiration  that  he ^ al 
ways  thinks  he  must  write  about  me  with  a  sort 
of  patronizing  toleration?  What  does  he  know 
of  such  an  art  as  mine,  anyhow?  " 

u  Lee,  how  can  I  tell  why  he  writes  as  he  does? 
It  is  not  a  subject  which  he  and  I  can  discuss.  I 
cannot  question  him  about  his  criticisms  of  you, 


220         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

and  he  never  mentions  the  subject  to  me.  I  am 
sure  he  tries  to  be  as  kind  as  he  can." 

Leander  strode  across  the  room,  lighted  a 
cigarette,  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  His  face 
was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  had  an  unpleasant  glitter. 
He  looked  not  unlike  a  spoiled  child  in  a  bad 
humor.  Helen  dimly  felt  that  his  temper  was 
something  of  that  sort,  and  she  endeavored  to  be 
indulgent.  But  she  had  not  read  him  rightly. 

"  Did  you,"  he  suddenly  asked,  "  see  Studley 
to-night  before  or  after  he  was  in  my  dressing- 
room?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  in  your  room  at 
all." 

"  Oh,  indeed.  Well,  he  was  there  after  the 
prison  scene.  Did  you  see  him  before  that?  " 

"  No;  I  saw  him  when  he  was  going  out  after 
the  ship  scene." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Leander  sullenly. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  indulge  in  talk  of  that 
kind,  Leander,  I  think  our  conversation  had  bet 
ter  end  for  to-night." 

"  Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you?     Well,  our  con- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         221 

versation  is  not  going  to  end  just  yet.  I  have 
something  more  to  say." 

Helen,  who  had  risen,  resumed  her  seat.  She 
was  striving  bravely  to  be  patient,  for  she  felt 
now  that  something  serious  underlay  the  mood  of 
her  husband. 

"  Have  you  ever  had  any  conversation,"  he 
asked,  "  with  your  fine  friend  Studley  about  my 
acquaintance  with  Mile.  Bosanska?  " 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  speak  of  it 
to  any  one?"  asked  Helen  calmly,  as  she  gazed 
frankly  into  his  eyes. 

Leander's  temper  rushed  swiftly  to  the  boiling- 
point.  He  sprang  from  his  chair,  crossed  the 
room  in  three  strides,  and  stood  in  front  of  her 
in  an  attitude  actually  menacing.  She  wondered 
vaguely  what  he  was  going  to  do  to  her.  But  he 
contented  himself  with  agitated  speech  and  much 
brandishing  of  the  arms. 

4  Your  friend  Studley  came  into  my  dressing- 
room  and  found  me  in  conversation  with  Mile.  Bo 
sanska.  He  had  the  impudence  to  make  sar 
castic  comments,  to  intimate  that  I  ought  not  to 


222         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

be  there  with  her,  to  insinuate  that  there  was  some 
disloyalty  to  you  in  it.  Now  I  want  to  tell  you 
right  away  that  I  won't  stand  anything  of  that 
sort.  I  will  not  have  any  whippersnapper  of  a 
newspaper  man,  just  because  he  is  in  your  confi 
dence,  coming  into  my  room  and " 

Helen  had  risen  and  placed  herself  directly  in 
front  of  him.  She  had  gently  shaken  her  head  in 
mild  protest  as  he  spoke,  and  at  length  had 
stretched  out  her  two  ivory  arms  and  laid  her 
dainty  hands  on  his  shoulders.  Then  she  inter 
rupted  the  rush  of  his  words. 

"  Lee,  my  dear,  dear  Lee,  you  mustn't  say  such 
things  to  me.  I  have  no  knowledge  of  Philip's 
movements,  nor  have  I  any  control  over  them. 
But  you  may  be  perfectly  certain  of  one  thing,  my 
dear,  and  that  is  that  I  would  scorn  to  spy  either 
directly  or  indirectly  on  your  actions.  I  have 
never  given  the  least  thought  to  your  friendship 
for  Mile.  Bosanska — except,  except " 

She  hesitated.  Her  rigorous  regard  for  truth 
urged  her  to  qualify  her  statement,  yet  she  hardly 
knew  how. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         223 

"Except  what?"  demanded  Leander,  seizing 
her  hands  and  roughly  removing  them  from  his 
shoulders. 

"  Except  that  I  have  thought  that  maybe  in 
the  end  it  might  help  you  to  discover  your  own 
real  self." 

Helen's  beautiful,  soft  eyes  were  lowered,  and 
tears  gathered  under  their  fringes.  Her  hands 
drooped  at  her  sides,  and  the  rising  and  falling  of 
her  small  round  bosom  could  be  seen  through  the 
filmy  laces  of  her  peignoir.  Her  curved  crimson 
lips  were  gently  parted,  and  her  pearly  teeth  shone 
visible,  while  her  breathing,  almost  sighing,  was 
clearly  audible.  She  was  so  lovely  and  so  de 
sirable  that  if  Leander  had  not  been  obsessed  by 
self,  he  would  have  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and 

kissed  her  upon  the  eyes.     But  he  was  driven  by 

> 

forces  which  he  did  not  comprehend. 

"  My  real  self,  my  real  self!  There  we  have 
it,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  have  from  the  begin 
ning  tried  to  tell  me  that  there  is  something  wrong 
with  my  character,  that  I  don't  understand  the 
meaning  of  my  own  art.  And  your  devoted 


224         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

friend,  Philip  Studley,  your  extremely  devoted 
friend,  agrees  with  you  to  a  jot.  Now  I  want  to 
tell  you  once  and  for  all,  as  I  have  told  you  be 
fore,  that  neither  you  nor  he  know  what  you  are 
talking  about.  I  know  my  business.  You  don't 
know  it.  From  the  day  we  were  married  you 
have  failed  to  understand  me.  No,  you  needn't 
speak.  I  know  I've  told  you  that  before,  too. 
But  I  don't  intend  to  tell  it  again.  You  can't  bring 
yourself  into  the  life  of  an  artist  at  all.  Mile. 
Bosanska  does  know  how  to  understand  my  art, 
and  if  I  choose  to  talk  to  her  about  it  instead  of 
to  you,  you've  no  one  to  blame  but  yourself." 

Helen  looked  up  sorrowfully,  and  the  tears 
glistened  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  quite  know  what  all  this  means,  Le- 
ander;  but  if  you  can  get  from  Mile.  Bosanska 
sympathy  and  understanding  which  I  cannot  give 
you,  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  do  so." 

"  That's  right!  "  he  cried;  "  tell  me  that  if  I'm 
not  satisfied  with  you,  I  can  go  to  the  devil  with 
her.  That's  what  you  mean,  of  course.  All 
right,  all  right.  Anyhow,  this  is  the  end  of  every- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         225 

thing  between  you  and  me.  We'll  have  no  more 
pretenses,  anyhow.  I'll  leave  you  to  yourself. 
You  can  have  this  room,  and  I'll  sleep  in  my  dress 
ing-room.  Good-night." 

He  wheeled  sharply  around  and  rushed  into  his 
dressing-room.  He  slammed  the  door  behind 
him,  and  the  next  second  Helen  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock.  She  almost  smiled  in  the  midst 
of  her  grief,  for  the  act  struck  her  as  intensely 
childish.  And  so,  indeed,  it  was.  All  of  Le- 
ander's  conduct  had  been  childish,  and  wholly 
consistent  with  the  character  of  a  spoiled  opera 
singer.  But  that  did  not  render  the  trial  easier 
for  the  wife.  She  walked  to  her  mirror,  and, 
standing  in  front  of  it,  let  the  peignoir  slip  from 
her  shoulders.  She  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the 
ravishing  image  before  her.  She  slowly  shook  her 
head. 

"  It  is  not  that,  not  that,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  am  more  beautiful  than  she,  and  I  give  him  a 
grand  passion  which  she  cannot  even  imagine,  for 
I  give  him  my  whole  life,  my  soul  forever  and 
forever.  But  he  does  not  know,  he  does  not  un- 


226         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

derstand.  And  it  is  all  because  he  does  not  yet 
know  his  own  soul.  Suppose  it  wakes  for  her; 
what  then?  " 

And  drawing  her  garment  about  her  again,  she 
crossed  the  room  and  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her 
lonely  bed,  begging  Heaven  to  uncoil  the  tangled 
skein  which  was  winding  itself  around  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

^TT^HE  season  was  at  its  end.  The  customary 
-*•  "  gala  "  performance  of  selected  acts  from 
various  operas  had  been  given,  not  on  a  sub 
scription  night,  of  course,  but  as  one  of  the  numer 
ous  extras  which  had  become  features  of  the  time 
in  opera  world.  This  out  of  the  way,  the  real 
farewells  took  place.  Neither  Leander  nor  Nagy 
had  been  implicated  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
"  gala  "  performance.  They  were  reserved  for 
the  last  matinee.  They  had  been  heard  together 
once  more  in  "  Carmen,"  and  the  intense  se 
ductiveness  of  the  Hungarian's  impersonation  had 
again  wrought  its  unfailing  effect,  while  Leander's 
matchless  delivery  of  the  flower  song  had  thrown 
five  hundred  "  matinee  girls  "  into  indescribable 
raptures.  Of  course  little  Madeleine  Piroux  sang 
Micaela,  while  Tremontini  had  the  opportunity 
of  his  career  in  Escamillo.  And  because  Tre 
montini  sang,  the  Toreador  Feramordi  was  in  the 

227 


228         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

theater  and  keeping  close  watch  on  all  his  doings. 
Ponitzky  strolled  into  the  house  after  the  third 
act,  ready  to  take  the  little  Piroux  away  with  him. 
Comparelli  conducted  and  smiled  wickedly  up  at 
Nagy,  whose  defection  from  him  was  now  com 
mon  knowledge  behind  the  scenes. 

After  the  matinee  many  of  the  singers  gath 
ered  in  the  same  little  Italian  restaurant.  The 
greasy  atmosphere  of  the  place  gave  them  a  pleas 
ure  which  they  could  not  have  defined.  They 
slowly  relaxed  after  the  strain  of  the  day.  Po 
nitzky  lolled  in  his  chair  like  a  huge  bear  at  play 
and  quizzically  gazed  at  his  mistress.  He  blew 
cigarette  smoke  across  the  table,  and  in  grumbling 
bass  tones  said: 

"  Pity  you're  not  engaged  for  South  America, 
my  angel." 

Madeleine  returned  his  gaze  steadily,  and  an 
swered  : 

"  I  do  not  feel  so.    I'm  rather  glad  of  it." 

Ponitzky  smiled  an  evil  smile. 

"  It  will  be  a  most  agreeable  season  for  Baroni 
and  Nagy." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         229 

The  little  French  soprano  shrugged  her  shoul 
ders  and  looked  around  the  room  with  an  assump 
tion  of  indifference. 

"  Ah,"  continued  Ponitzky,  "  I  see  it  matters 
not  at  all  to  you.  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Ponitzky,"  said  Madeleine  quietly,  "  you  and 
I  have  been  together  about  long  enough,  I  think. 
I  am  of  the  opinion  that  you  are  not  worth  while. 
I  ceased  to  care  for  you  long  ago ;  yet  while  you 
were  willing  to  treat  me  decently  I  was  willing  to 
continue  with  you.  But  I  am  not  obliged  to 
swallow  your  abuse." 

She  rose  from  the  table,  but  Ponitzky  put  up 
his  hand  and  arrested  her. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said;  "  don't  be  a  fool.  But 
you  are  right.  It  is  wrong  for  me  to  taunt  you. 
I  am  really  fond  of  you,  Madeleine.  Can  you 
blame  me  for  being  hurt  when  I  know  that,*  if 
you  could  have  Baroni,  you  would  leave  me  for 
him  to-morrow?  But  you  know  it  is  impossible. 
Nagy  has  him  in  her  claws." 

Madeleine  had  resumed  her  seat.  She  smiled 
faintly  at  the  big  basso. 


230         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Ponitzky,"  she  said,  "  you  haven't  been  un 
kind  to  me,  on  the  whole.  And  I'm  accustomed  to 
you.  You  are  a  habit,  a  bad  one,  but  still  not  easy 
to  break.  Only  you  must  not  try  to  hurt  me.  I 
crave  kindness.  I  have  been  alone  in  the  world  for 
years.  I  have  no  relatives,  no  friends.  I  accepted 
your  companionship  because  I  was  so  lonely.  I  am 
content  to  remain  with  you,  if  you  will  be  kind." 

"  Mon  Dicu,  little  girl,"  said  Ponitzky,  lean 
ing  across  the  table  toward  her,  "  I'm  sorry.  I 
will  never  hurt  you  again.  You  are  a  good  girl, 
and  I  will  try  to  make  you  happy." 

"  As  for  Baroni,"  she  went  on;  "  he  is  nothing 
to  me — never  can  be.  You  can  rest  easy  as  to 
that.  And  his  wife  will  save  him  from  Nagy." 

"  Well,  not  in  Buenos  Ayres  at  any  rate." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  She  does  not  go." 

Ponitzky  smiled  another  evil  smile.  He  could 
not  help  them.  He  was  saturated  with  the  role 
of  Mephistopheles  in  which  he  had  made  his  great 
est  success  in  three  operas,  Gounod's,  Boito's,  and 
Berlioz's. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         231 

"  She  does  not  go !  Then  it  is  true,  that  which 
I  suspected.  All  is  not  well  with  them.  But  stop ; 
how  do  you  know  this?  " 

"  Why,  ma  vie,  every  one  knows  it.  Stahlberg, 
the  transportation  man,  has  engaged  passage  for 
Baroni  and  his  valet,  but  not  for  his  wife." 

"  But  that  may  not  mean  anything  except  that 
she  is  to  go  by  another  steamer." 

"  He  sails  on  the  Vasari  on  the  twentieth.  She 
does  not  go;  be  sure  of  that.  Ask  Tremontini, 
or  better,  Feramordi.  She  is  going." 

Tremontini  and  his  beloved  contralto  were  sit 
ting  at  the  next  table  with  Abadista  and  two  or 
three  others. 

u  I  hear,"  said  Madeleine,  leaning  toward 
them,  "  that  you  are  going  down  on  the  same 
steamer  as  Baroni  and  his  wife." 

"  With  Baroni,  yes,"  replied  Feramordi  shortly, 
"  with  his  wife,  no.  She  will  not  visit  South 
America.  She  remains  in  North  America.  The 
climate  is  said  to  suit  her  much  better." 

There  was  a  ripple  of  cheap  laughter  and 
Madeleine  turned  away  sore  at  heart,  for  she 


23 2         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

realized  that  there  must  have  been  a  rupture  be 
tween  Leander  and  Helen,  and  she  well  knew  that 
the  wife  was  worth  a  score  of  women  such  as  the 
fascinating  Hungarian.  The  information  was  ac 
curate.  The  breach  which  had  opened  on  the 
night  of  the  "  L'Africaine "  performance  had 
widened.  The  husband  and  wife  had  continued  to 
dwell  apart,  and  Leander  had  determined  to  leave 
her  behind  him  when  he  went  to  the  Argentine" 
capital.  Helen  was  not  sure  that  this  would  not 
be  best  for  him.  She  still  believed  that  he  needed 
the  scarifying  experience  of  some  great  spiritual 
awakening,  and  she  hoped  that  a  temporary  sep 
aration  would  bring  it  about.  For  the  idle  com 
ments  of  her  acquaintances  she  cared  nothing,  but 
she  knew  that  these  could  be  quieted  by  her  asser 
tion  that  she  could  not  risk  the  Argentine  climate. 
But  Helen  did  not  know  all  that  was  in  Baroni's 
mind.  If  she  had,  she  might  perhaps  have  in 
sisted  on  going  with  him. 

It  was  understood  when  Leander  sailed  that 
Helen  was  to  join  him  in  Europe,  whither  he 


'I  III-    SOUL  OF  A  TKNOR          233 

was  to  go  directly  from  South  America.  If 
letters  from  Buenos  Ayres  were  brief  and  busi 
ness-like,  lie  and  Helen  had  agreed  that  at  least 
the  outward  appearance  of  marriage  must  con 
tinue.  In  fact  they  had  not  actually  spoken  of 
this  in  plain  words,  but  nevertheless  they  under 
stood  each  other.  I  le  wrote  to  her  when  it  was 
necessary,  but  at  no  other  time.  She  answered 
him  in  the  same  way.  They  were  merely  drifting. 
The  South  American  engagement  lasted  till  mid- 
July  and  Helen  passed  much  of  the  hot  weather 
out  of  New  York.  She  took  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  visit  her  few  relatives.  She  had 
little  in  common  with  them,  but  the  formalities 
of  life  demanded  that  she  show  them  some  atten 
tion.  It  was  when  she  returned  to  New  York 
to  prepare  to  go  to  Kurope  that  she  obtained  a 
clearer  insight  into  the  situation.  She  received 
a  letter  from  Leander,  which  read  thus: 

"  I  do  not  see  any  reason  why  there  should  be 
a  continuation  of  an  impossible  relation  between 
us.  The  best  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  continue 


234         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

apart.  You  will  be  happier,  I  am  sure,  and  so 
will  I.  It  was  a  mistake  for  you  to  marry  an 
artist,  for  the  world  in  which  he  moves  is  not 
your  world  and  will  never  become  so.  You  cannot 
adjust  yourself  to  its  requirements  and  cannot 
accustom  yourself  to  its  flexible  conditions.  I 
have  accepted  certain  engagements  in  Europe  for 
the  next  year  and  shall  not  sing  in  the  United 
States.  I  am  satisfied  that  it  will  be  far  better  for 
my  future  success  to  remain  absent  for  at  least 
one  season.  This  will  render  it  easy  for  you  to 
account  for  your  being  away  from  me.  You  can 
say  that  you  do  not  find  yourself  in  good  health  in 
St.  Petersburg  and  other  places  where  I  am  going 
to  sing,  and  that  you  prefer  to  have  an  established 
residence  instead  of  traveling  about.  Or  possi 
bly  you  will  prefer  to  give  some  other  reason 
which  does  not  occur  to  me.  Settle  it  to  suit  your 
self.  At  any  rate,  you  will  be  better  off  away 
from  me." 

The  letter  fell  from  her  trembling  fingers.    She 
threw  up  her  hands  and  covered  her  eyes.     Her 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         235 

head  swam  with  thick  heavy  pulsations  and  she 
had  a  feeling  of  suffocation.  Her  gentle  bosom 
heaved  convulsively  and  her  whole  frame  shook 
with  the  agony  of  this  blow,  so  cruelly  and  coldly 
dealt.  For  there  was  no  faintness  in  Helen's  love. 
It  was  the  well-spring  of  her  life,  and  Leander's 
weaknesses  had  only  served  to  arouse  in  her  that 
beautiful  protective  instinct  of  maternity  which 
is  a  part  of  every  true  woman's  love  for  erring 
man.  For  half  an  hour  she  lay  back  in  her  chair 
unable  to  move  or  think.  Her  senses  were 
stunned,  her  faculties  rendered  inoperative.  But 
she  was  too  strong  to  remain  smitten  into  inactiv 
ity.  The  splendid  forces  of  her  character  slowly 
gathered  themselves  and  her  dominant  intellect 
reassumed  its  control.  She  suddenly  sprang  from 

the  chair,  with  flashing  eyes  and  hands  clenched 

> 

till  her  nails  turned  white. 

"  It  shall  not  be!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Now  it 
is  between  her  and  me.  Well,  so  be  it.  But  I 
must  think,  I  must  think." 

She  went  and  stood  by  a  window  and  gazed  at 
the  slow-moving  white  clouds  over  the  ugly  house- 


236         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

tops.  Out  of  the  long  and  deep  reflection  she 
drew  the  outlines  of  her  course  of  action.  This 
was  to  be  a  battle  of  woman's  wits,  not  the  wild 
turmoil  of  unbridled  emotions.  And  one  of  the 
things  Helen  evolved  was  a  letter  to  her  husband. 
In  it  she  said: 

"  I  am  content  to  follow  your  wishes.  I  need 
hardly  tell  you  that  I  know  the  true  reason  of  your 
actions.  But  I  feel  only  commiseration  for  you. 
I  shall  certainly  not  sue  for  a  divorce.  It  would 
be  foolish  and  it  would  do  you,  at  least,  no  good. 
You  might  be  stupid  enough  to  marry  her,  and 
then  you  would  soon  be  suing  for  a  divorce  your 
self,  for  she  will  tire  of  you.  You  will  not  trouble 
yourself  to  send  me  any  of  your  earnings.  You 
know  that  I  have  plenty  of  money  of  my  own, 
and  I  am  sure  that  in  the  circumstances  you  will 
require  all  you  can  get.  You  know  my  permanent 
address.  If  you  have  occasion  to  communicate 
with  me,  please  do  so.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as 
well  for  you  to  send  me  a  few  newspaper  clippings 
from  time  to  time  in  order  that  I  may  be  able  to 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         237 
tell  people  where  you  are  and  all  about  your  im 


mense  successes." 


And  this  reference  to  his  successes  was  the  only 
note  of  reproach  in  her  carefully  composed  letter. 
It  was  in  London  that  Leander  read  it.  He  was 
sitting  in  the  Savoy  restaurant  with  Nagy.  The 
familiar  crowd  of  diners  was  around  them  and  a 
few  recognized  them  and  pointed  them  out.  No 
one,  however,  attracts  attention  for  a  long  time 
in  the  Savoy,  for  all  the  driftwood  of  the  world 
floats  through  it. 

''Interesting  letter,  mon  ami?"  murmured 
Nagy. 

"  Rather,"  replied  Leander.  "  It  is  refresh 
ingly  cool  at  any  rate." 

"  From  madame,  I  presume." 

4  Yes,"  answered  Leander  shortly  and  with  an 
absent  air,  as  he  folded  it  and  replaced  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"Reproachful?" 

"  Not  at  all.  That  is  what  astonished  me  a 
little." 


238         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"No  hostilities?" 

"  No;  she  says  she  will  not  begin  any  action." 

Nagy's  green  eyes  seemed  to  turn  inward  and 
she  held  deep  communion  with  herself. 

'  This  woman  will  bear  watching.  She  knows 
things.  But  if  she  imagines  that  I  am  going  to 
discover  Leander's  soul  for  him  in  order  that  she 
may  bask  in  the  sunlight  of  a  great  awakening 
she  does  not  understand  Nagy  Bosanska.  And 
she  will  not  take  action  for  the  divorce.  Then 
she  is  afraid  he  might  marry  me  and  that  he 
would  be  lost  to  her  for  good  and  all.  Why, 
the  silly  woman  still  loves  him  and  she 
has  hopes.  He  is  mine  and  I  mean  to  keep 
him." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  in  there  behind  those 
eyes,  Nagy?  "  asked  Leander. 

"  The  thoughts  of  a  woman." 

"  That  may  mean  a  thousand  things,"  said  he, 
smiling.  "  But  you  will  tell  me  at  least  one  of 
them,  will  you  not?  " 

"  Yes;  she  is  afraid  that  we  might  marry." 

"  Why,  she  says  as  much." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         239 

"  So  I  thought.  But  what  is  marriage  to  us? 
How  long  will  you  love  me,  Leander?  " 

"  As  long  as  you  make  me,  light  of  my  life." 

''Already?  You  are  learning  fast,  my  friend. 
You  grow  wiser  by  the  minute.  You  see  what 
it  means  to  dwell  in  the  heart  of  Nagy  Bosanska." 

Leander  hummed  a  line  from  "  Lohengrin  " : 

"  '  Dein  Lieben  sei  mein  stolz  Gewahr.'  " 

Nagy  smiled  and  lifting  her  glass  looked  in 
tently  at  him  over  the  rim  as  she  said  in  her 
softest  tone: 

"  The  world  is  ours." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TN  early  August  Helen  sailed  for  Cherbourg. 
-*-  Her  thoughts  had  been  countless  in  the  course 
of  the  days  which  followed  the  announcement  of 
Leander's  plans.  Her  bitter  grief  did  not  desert 
her,  but  neither  did  that  splendid  resolution  which 
had  formed  itself  into  words  on  the  eventful  day. 
It  was  to  be  a  struggle  for  the  soul  of  a  man  and 
Helen  had  her  plan  of  campaign.  She  was  never 
ignorant  of  the  whereabouts  of  her  recreant  hus 
band  and  his  serpentine  charmer.  The  operatic 
world  has  no  secret  places.  So  long  as  Leander 
and  Nagy  continued  to  sing,  it  mattered  not 
whether  the  husband  wrote  business  letters  to  his 
wife  or  not,  she  could  always  keep  herself  in 
formed  of  their  doings.  She  knew  that  in  Sep 
tember  they  would  be  in  Berlin  and  so  she  deter 
mined  that  Paris  would  be  the  center  of  her  cam 
paign  of  masterly  inactivity.  She  had  her  own 

ideas  of  Leander's  deepest  soul.    She  thought  she 

240 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         241 

knew  it  much  better  than  he  did  and  she  was 
going  to  make  an  experiment  in  discovering  it  to 
him.  So  one  day  in  September  Mrs.  Harley  Man 
ners  gasped  for  breath  when  she  saw  Helen  pass 
ing  in  state  along  the  Avenue  de  Bois  de  Bou 
logne  in  her  car.  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  was 
riding  modestly  in  a  taxicab,  for  she  was  in  Paris 
for  only  a  few  days  on  her  way  homeward  from 
a  most  exciting  sojourn  in  St.  Moritz.  She  was 
accompanied  on  this  occasion  by  Mile.  Madeleine 
Piroux,  who  was  singing  in  a  special  season  at 
the  Opera  Comique. 

"  Am  I  dreaming?  "  asked  Mrs.  Manners,  "  or 
was  that  Mrs.  Baroni  who  just  went  by?  " 

*  You  are  quite  awake,  my  dear  Mrs.  Man 
ners,"  answered  Madeleine  with  a  faint  smile. 
*  You  have  but  just  arrived  in  Paris  or  you 
would  have  heard  of  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Baroni." 

"Is  Mr.  Baroni  here?" 

"  Oh,  no,  he  is  singing  in  Berlin  for  the  mo 
ment.  Later  he  goes  to  Copenhagen,  Stockholm, 
and  St.  Petersburg.  It  is  to  be  a  brilliant  winter 
season  in  Russia." 


242         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

'What!  Doesn't  he  sing  in  New  York  this 
coming  winter?  " 

"  Can  it  be  that  you  do  not  know  this?  It  is 
impossible.  It  was  doubtful  even  when  he  started 
for  South  America,  and  while  there  he  came  to 
his  decision." 

"  I  am  out  of  the  world,"  moaned  Mrs.  Man 
ners.  "  But  tell  me  about  his  wife." 

>l  It  is  given  out  that  she  does  not  wish  to 
travel  all  over  Europe  and  that  particularly  the 
climate  of  Russia  is  not  for  her.  Accordingly 
she  remains  here.  She  has  taken  a  splendid  house 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Faisanderie.  She  has  a  corps  of 
servants,  two  automobiles,  and  her  special  courier. 
She  has  engaged  a  famous  master  of  cuisine  as 
chef  and  a  Swiss  hotel  proprietor  as  major  domo. 
It  is  said  that  she  will  establish  a  grand  salon." 

"  But  she  cannot  live  alone  in  Paris  and  do 
this." 

"  She  is  not  alone.  She  has  brought  with  her 
a  most  estimable  aunt,  who  is  sixty,  ugly,  and 
exceedingly  correct,  but  who  speaks  the  most  mar 
velous  French." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         243 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  mus 
ingly. 

"  You  wonder  what?  " 

"  If  she  has  an  aunt.  I  never  before  heard  of 
this  sudden  aunt." 

"  Nor  I,  but  must  we  hear  of  all  aunts,  you  and 
I?  Besides,  what  matters  it?  In  the  world  of 
Paris,  if  Mrs.  Baroni  is  brilliant  and  interesting 
and  brings  the  right  people  together  in  her  house, 
she  will  have  no  difficulty.  All  will  be  well. 
Here  one  must  be  amusing,  interesting,  or  aston 
ishing.  That  is  all.  But  she  has  the  key  to  all 
doors." 

"Yes?  What  key  is  this,  my  dear  Mile. 
Piroux?" 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  has  happened,  but  there 
can  be  no  question  that  she  is  acquainted  with  the 
necessary  persons.  She  has  the  entree  of  the 
houses  of  the  old  nobility  and  of  the  Republicans. 
She  has  been  seen  already  with  the  Minister  of 
Education  and  with  the  head  of  one  of  the  oldest 
Bourbon  houses.  They  seemed  to  be  friends  of 
hers.  She  is  on  the  right  path,  be  assured." 


244         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  decided  that 
she  must  at  once  try  to  arrange  to  start  for  New 
York  on  a  later  steamer,  and  in  the  meanwhile  she 
must  write  a  note  to  dear  Mrs.  Baroni  asking 
her  to  luncheon. 

For  some  reason  which  she  could  never  quite 
fathom  dear  Mrs.  Baroni  was  always  otherwise 
engaged,  and  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  had  to  em 
bark  at  Cherbourg  without  having  expressed  her 
personal  approval  of  Mrs.  Baroni's  new  depar 
ture  in  life.  The  last  time  the  industrious  seeker 
after  musical  celebrities  saw  the  tenor's  wife  she 
was  riding  up  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees 
with  the  American  ambassador,  a  personage 
whom  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  herself  knew  only 
by  sight.  And  it  had  been  only  the  previous  day 
that  she  had  beheld  Mrs.  Baroni  in  the  act  of 
taking  tea  at  the  Paillard  in  the  Pre  Catalan  with 
a  certain  Archduke  who  was  celebrated  as  a 
physician.  At  the  same  table  sat  a  distinguished 
French  painter  and  an  Italian  archaeologist. 

Mrs.  Harley  Manners  had  succeeded  in  at 
tracting  the  attention  of  the  tenor's  wife,  and 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         245 

had  received  a  most  gracious  smile,  which  was 
at  the  same  instant  a  dismissal,  so  that  she  had 
not  dared  to  approach  the  eminent  tea-table. 
When  the  tenor's  wife  went  up  the  noisy  Champs 
Elysees  with  the  Ambassador  she  did  not  even  see 
Mrs.  Harley  Manners.  So  on  the  day  before  her 
enforced  departure  for  Cherbourg  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners,  abandoning  all  reserve,  hastened  to  call 
upon  the  charming  Mile.  Madeleine  Piroux  in  her 
piquant  apartment  in  the  Rue  des  Petits  Pois. 
Happily  the  soprano  was  at  home  with  her  faith 
ful  Ponitzky  in  attendance. 

"  It  is  most  heartrending,"  declared  Mrs.  Har 
ley  Manners;  "  but  I  must  positively  sail  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  My  husband  will  not  exist  any 
longer  without  me." 

"  Paris  will  miss  you,"  said  Madeleine.  "  Byt 
it  will  not  be  long  before  most  of  us  are  back  in 
New  York." 

'  You  will  not  come  before  November,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  No,  but  it  is  only  five  weeks  away.  I  shall 
be  almost  on  your  heels." 


246         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  And  I  at  your  feet,"  added  Ponitzky. 

"  But  in  the  meantime,"  Mrs.  Harley  Manners 
hastened  to  say,  "  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
take  pity  on  a  poor  benighted  New  Yorker,  will 
you  not?  Write  to  me,  my  dear  Mile.  Piroux, 
and  tell  me  all  the  news  and  gossip  of  this  adora 
ble  Paris;  say  that  you  will." 

Madeleine  understood  perfectly  what  was  ex 
pected  of  her,  but  she  had  not  the  slightest  ob 
jection  to  gratifying  the  wish  of  this  volatile  and 
superficial  woman,  who  after  all  had  her  use  in 
that  dreary  and  prosaic  New  York,  whither  one 
was  pitilessly  forced  to  go  for  so  many  months 
to  get  the  imperial  dollar. 

"  Yes,  of  a  certainty  I  shall  write  to  you,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Manners,  and  you  shall  know  every 
thing  that  you  can  wish  to  know." 

"  You  are  assuredly  the  sweetest  thing,"  said 
Mrs.  Manners,  rushing  forward  and  dabbing 
kisses  on  Madeleine's  carnation  cheeks.  "  Good- 
by,  and  as  soon  as  you  arrive  in  New  York 
remember  that  you  and  M.  Ponitzky  are  to  dine 
with  me  at  once,  at  once,  remember." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         247 

And  she  evanished  still  gushing  like  a  mill-dam. 
Madeleine  smiled  at  Ponitzky. 

"  Droll  creature,  is  she  not?  And  most  droll 
when  she  tries  to  be  like  a  Frenchwoman.  It  is 
amusing." 

But  the  little  soprano  remembered  her  promise, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  all  the  Manners  circle 
in  New  York  knew  the  wondrous  stir  which  the 
tenor's  wife  was  creating  in  Paris,  a  stir  which 
was  much  larger  by  the  time  it  reached  New  York 
via  Mrs.  Manners.  And  when  the  various  mem 
bers  of  the  opera  company  returned  to  Gotham 
for  their  season  they  all  had  something  to  say 
about  Mrs.  Baroni  and  her  doings.  As  for  the 
tenor  himself,  they  said  little  enough,  for  none  of 
them  liked  him.  His  free  and  frank  manners  had 

always  been  offset  by  his  unconcealable  egotism. 

* 

Of  course  in  a  community  of  egotists  each  mem 
ber  finds  a  hostile  force  in  each  of  the  others,  and 
there  is  no  other  community  of  egotists  so  thor 
oughly  self-centered  as  an  opera  company. 

It  was  gratifying  to  those  who  had  friends  in 
New  York  to  tell  them  about  the  remarkable 


248         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

career  which  the  American  woman  was  making  in 
Parisian  society.  She  had  begun  by  showing  her 
self  in  public  places  in  the  company  of  people  of 
political,  artistic,  and  scientific  fame.  The  natural 
outcome  was  that  all  Paris  was  soon  telling  about 
her  and  the  sporting  set,  which  inevitably  num 
bered  many  of  the  old  and  idle  aristocracy, 
showed  an  inclination  to  take  her  up.  But  she 
would  have  none  of  it.  She  clung  to  the  intel 
lectual  aristocracy,  which  is,  after  all,  the  highest 
aristocracy  of  France,  and  she  found  an  entree 
into  certain  houses  of  the  old  Faubourg  where 
only  the  cream  of  the  world  can  go. 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  the  Americans  in  Paris 
were  chagrined  by  the  success  of  this  woman, 
wholly  unplaced  in  American  society.  They  mar 
veled  at  her  reception.  If  they  had  only  pos 
sessed  the  secret  of  the  beginning  they  would  have 
marveled  still  more.  Helen  had  reached  Paris 
armed  with  only  two  letters  of  introduction.  That 
which  opened  the  world  to  her  was  written  by 
Dr.  Silas  Mabon,  the  distinguished  chemist,  and 
it  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  forty  immortals, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         249 

who  chanced  also  to  be  the  scion  of  one  of  the 
oldest  houses  of  France. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  news  of  Helen's 
new  departure  reached  her  husband.  He  and 
Nagy  had  completed  their  Berlin  engagement  and 
were  singing  a  "  guest "  performance  in  "  Car 
men  "  in  Dresden.  They  were  sitting  in  a  rather 
gorgeous  apartment  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Hotel 
Bellevue,  an  apartment  in  which  yellow  and  blue 
satin  brocades  vied  with  one  another  in  riotous 
German  splendor.  Leander  had  just  received  his 
letters,  forwarded  from  Paris,  and  among  them 
was  one  envelope  which  contained  only  clippings 
from  newspapers.  These  were  paragraphs  of  so 
cial  news  recording  the  doings  of  Mme.  Leandro 
Baroni,  wife  of  the  distinguished  tenor,  now  trav 
eling  in  Allemagne.  He  read  them  thoughtfully, 
and,  folding  them  up,  was  about  to  put  them  in 
his  pocket,  when  Nagy  said: 

"  Press  cuttings,  my  dear?  Who  is  singing  in 
Paris  at  this  time  of  the  year?  " 

"  Oh,  these  are  not  about  singers,"  he  answered 
evasively. 


250         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  me  all  about  it  now  as 
later,  Leander.     You  know  you  are  going  to  tell 


me." 


Leander  gazed  steadily  at  her  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  stock  of  her  atti 
tude  toward  him.  It  had  come  to  be  one  of  quiet 
possession  and  assured  control.  He  wondered 
just  how  much  further  it  would  go.  Then  he 
took  up  the  clippings,  unfolded  them,  and  blowing 
a  thin  spiral  of  blue  smoke  from  his  cigarette, 
said: 

'  These  cuttings,  my  dear  Nagy,  are  about  my 
wife." 

"  Mon  Dieu;  so  she  has  become  a  public 
woman,  has  she?  What  line  has  she  gone  in 
for?" 

"  It  seems  that  she  has  established  a  brilliant 
salon  in  Paris,  even  at  this  untoward  season  of 
the  year.  I  fancy  that  when  every  one  has  re 
turned,  she  is  going  to  be  something  of  a  figure." 

"  Ah,  a  Recamier  from  Fifth  Avenue.  She 
should  make  a  success  in  at  least  one  phase  of  the 
character." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         251 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  he. 

"  Recamier's  success  was  largely  due  to  the  fact 
that  her  temperament  prevented  her  from  being 
assailed  by  scandal.  I  suppose,  too,  that  when 
the  right  time  comes  that  delightful  little  Studley 
will  be  ready  to  play  the  role  of  Chateaubriand. 
But  she  will  not  refuse  him,  as  her  predecessor 
did." 

Leander  made  no  answer.  He  sat  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  some  far  distant  scene  which  his 
imagination  had  reconstructed  for  him.  There 
was  a  strange  look  in  those  eyes,  the  look  of  a  man 
who  has  discovered  something  and  found  it  pain 
ful.  Nagy  watched  him  for  a  few  moments  and 
said  to  herself: 

'  That  was  a  mistake  of  mine.  He  remembers 
the  hours  when  the  temperament  was  permittee!  to 
reveal  itself.  Those  American  women,  they  are 
not  so  cold  as  they  seem.  They  are  the  children 
of  their  own  Puritan  ancestors  and  they  must  al 
ways  act  like  the  Puritans.  But  they  are  not  cold. 
They  are  only  slow,  that  is  all.  I  must  make  him 
forget." 


252         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Nagy  had  already  begun  a  process  of  education. 
She  found  Leander  an  apt  pupil.  Faculties  which 
had  merely  lain  dormant  began  to  awaken  and  to 
work  vigorously.  He  had  never  known  the  poign 
ant  grip  of  beauty  upon  the  soul.  He  had  cher 
ished  the  blind  American  habit  of  treating  aesthetic 
emotion  as  something  of  which  one  should  be 
ashamed.  He  had  walked  through  miles  of  Eu 
ropean  picture  galleries  in  his  earlier  days  and 
made  flippant  comments  on  masterpieces.  He 
had  declared  that  cathedrals  were  nothing  better 
than  exaggerated  stone  heaps.  He  had  gathered 
joyfully  to  himself  some  one's  description  of  stat 
ues  as  "  stone  dolls."  He  had  regarded  the  Alps 
as  shade  producers  for  luxurious  hotels  and  the 
Adriatic  as  a  good  bathing  resort.  But  already, 
under  the  tutelage  of  Nagy's  brilliant  mind  and 
palpitating  love  for  the  physically  beautiful,  he 
was  beginning  to  enjoy. 

"  Come,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  we  are  going  to 
motor  out  to  Pillnitz  and  dine  there.  You  shall 
show  me  the  beauties  of  the  sunset  on  the  Elbe 
and  I  shall  show  you  the  soul  of  Nagy  Bosanska." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         253 

Lcander  smiled.  He  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoul 
der  and  lightly  kissed  her  hair. 

'  You  will  show  me  your  soul,  Nagy?  Do  you 
think  you  have  kept  much  of  it  hidden  from  me 
in  these  months  we  have  been  together?  " 

"  My  friend,"  she  answered  in  a  mournful 
voice;  "  when  I  first  took  you  to  myself,  you  could 
not  have  seen  even  the  outline  of  a  soul,  even  if 
you  and  it  had  been  alone  in  the  world.  You  see 
now  perhaps  the  outline,  but  nothing  more.  Of 
Nagy  Bosanska  you  know  only  the  beauty  of  her 
body  and  the  might  of  her  love.  But  she  is  for 
you  still  a  Sphinx  and  you  will  never  read  her. 
Yet  you  may  perhaps  know  a  little  more  than  you 
do  now." 

"  Shall  I  ever  know  all,  Nagy?  " 

"  No ;  when  you  know  all,  you  will  leave  me.  I 
shall  no  longer  enchain  you." 

"  Nagy,  you  are  very  wise,  but  you  are  also  a 
fool.  I  shall  adore  you  always." 

Yet  even  as  he  said  it  his  thoughts  reverted  to 
his  wife  and  her  salon,  and  he  wondered  how  she 
had  contrived  to  rise  to  the  surface  of  that  glitter- 


254         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

ing  sea  of  Paris.  He  wondered  how  she  had 
developed  into  a  force.  He  did  not  dream  that 
it  had  all  been  accomplished  out  of  a  woman's 
resolution  to  show  her  husband  that  she  was 
greater  than  his  mistress.  But  Nagy  had  divined 
it  in  an  instant.  The  war  was  on.  At  Pillnitz 
Nagy  was  determined  to  win  her  first  victory. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"TT'OU  cannot  know  the   soul  of  Nagy  Bo- 

-*•      sanska,"  said  the  Hungarian. 

She  was  watching  the  roseate  tints  of  the  de 
clining  day  dancing  in  the  ripples  of  the  Elbe.  She 
sat  opposite  Leander  at  a  table  on  which  was  the 
finale  of  their  dinner.  She  smoked  her  cigarette, 
and  a  few  solemn  Hausfrau  eyes  looked  upon 
her  with  disapproval.  Two  American  women, 
with  the  title  "  tourist "  stamped  upon  them, 
gazed  at  her  with  vulgar  curiosity  and  made  re 
marks  about  her  in  strident  tones.  Like  most  of 
their  kind,  they  fancied  that  no  one  else  under 
stood  their  language.  Two  or  three  Germans  of 
the  better  type  spoke  of  her  confidentially,  and  a 
Polish  Jew  in  the  corner  stared  at  her  with  dis 
tended  eyes.  He  was  the  only  one  who  knew 
her.  But  Nagy  was  accustomed  to  public  atten 
tion.  She  had  merely  taken  the  precaution  to  see 
that  no  one  was  close  enough  to  overhear  her  con- 

255 


256         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

versation  with  Baroni  and  she  spoke  to  him  in 
Italian. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  this  soul  myself, 
for  it  has  soundless  depths  and  elusive  spaces. 
But  I  know  much  more  of  it  than  you  know  of 
yours.  I  have  really  lived,  Baroni,  not  merely 
painted  a  life  out  of  my  vain  imaginings.  I  have 
known  joy  and  sorrow.  I  have  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  have  known  the  dif 
ference  between  good  and  evil.  I  have  looked  it 
squarely  in  the  face,  my  friend,  and  have  not 
blinded  myself  with  a  foolish  picture,  fashioned 
after  the  conventions  of  those  who  dare  not  think. 
I  have  lived  the  almost  unknown  life  of  an  honest 
woman,  who  lies  to  no  one,  not  even  herself.  I 
have  done  what  I  have  done  because  it  was  my 
pleasure  to  do  it,  and  I  have  not  had  to  comfort 
myself  with  cowardly  excuses.  I  have  never  sold 
myself  to  any  man,  as  your  virtuous  American 
maidens  do  when  they  marry  millionaires.  I  have 
never  been  the  mere  slave  of  a  man  whom  I  hated, 
as  some  pious  women  are  because  it  is  wicked  to 
obtain  divorces.  I  have  boldly  lived  the  life  that 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         257 

nine-tenths  of  the  women  of  this  world  would  live 
if  they  had  the  courage  to  shatter  the  barriers  of 
convention  which  men  and  priests  have  set  up  for 
them.  Goethe  was  a  poet  indeed  when  he  wrote 
*  The  woman  soul  leadeth  us  upward  and  on.' 
This  is  nonsense.  Where,  in  every  instance  but 
one  in  ten  thousand,  is  the  woman  soul?  Shamed, 
crushed,  trodden  into  the  mire,  every  instinct  of 
sex  and  self-respect  outraged  by  forced  obedience 
to  some  convention  of  a  world  utterly  sensual  and 
utterly  dishonest  about  it.  The  only  true  woman 
is  she  who  is  free  of  all  restrictions,  who  gives 
herself  as  she  will,  when  she  will,  where  she  will. 
All  others  are  shameless  and  nameless,  my  dear 
friend.  And  the  soul  of  Nagy  Bosanska  is  not 
the  soul  of  one  of  those.  It  is  clean  and  honest 
and  strong  because  it  has  always  been  free,  be 
cause  it  has  looked  good  and  evil  squarely  in  the 
eyes." 

Nagy  paused  and  gazed  again  at  the  rosy  lights 
growing  to  a  deeper  crimson  on  the  river  below 
them  and  Leander  fell  into  a  deep  thought.  A 
vague  unrest  had  been  awakened  within  him,  an 


258         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

undefinable  something  which  moved  him,  but 
which  he  could  neither  place  nor  name.  He 
groped  blindly  till  Nagy's  voice  again  claimed  his 
attention. 

"  I  remember  a  fragrant  hollow  in  the  palms 
of  the  brown  mountains.  All  around  it  rose  the 
sheer  and  rocky  heights,  like  the  outer  walls  of 
the  world;  but  it  was  filled  with  the  laughter  of 
sweet  waters,  floored  with  a  velvet  of  soft  green 
and  roofed  with  the  gentle  shade  of  dark-limbed 
trees.  There  we  dwelt,  my  father  and  mother, 
my  brothers  and  sisters  and  I.  My  father  went 
often  away  and  was  long  gone,  but  he  always  came 
back  with  plenty.  We  stayed  there  for  months, 
but  at  length  the  gipsy  spirit  could  rest  no  longer. 
Then  we  tramped  weary  miles  up  and  down  the 
great  mountain  passes.  But  we  always  found  rest 
ing  places  where  we  remained  for  months  at  a 
time.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  this  life  that 
fashioned  my  soul.  I  do  know  that  I,  too,  tramp 
up  and  down  the  passes  of  life,  rest  for  a  time  in 
green  valleys,  and  then  press  forward  again. 

"  Well,  let  all  that  go.     The  time  came  when 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         259 

I  joined  in  the  open  air  festivals  of  my  people. 
I  was  the  maddest  of  all  the  dancers.  The  wine 
of  the  Czardas  flowed  in  my  veins.  None  so 
languorous  and  melting  in  the  lassu  as  Nagy,  none 
so  swift  and  flame-like  in  the  friss.  And  then  I 
began  to  play  upon  the  cembalon  and  the  guitar 
and  to  sing.  And  soon  it  was  said  that  in  all 
the  Hohe  Tatra  there  was  no  voice  like  that  of 
Nagy — not  Bosanska — I  had  another  name  then. 
"  All  went  well  enough  till  my  father,  eager  to 
get  money,  took  us  all  to  the  borders  of  the  Lake 
of  Csorba.  It  was  there  that  Ferencz,  a  gipsy,  fell 
in  love  with  me.  I  remember  him  because  he  was 
the  first  who  told  me.  I  am  sure  now  that  there 
were  others  before  him,  but  I  did  not  know  then 
what  was  the  matter  with  them.  I  accepted 
Ferencz's  love  without  any  question,  because  I 
wanted  it.  It  was  mine  and  I  took  it.  I  know 
now  that  it  was  the  one  great  love  that  I  have 
ever  had.  I  know  now  that  I  loved  him.  But  I 
was  a  fool  then,  because  I  was  only  a  girl,  and 
girls  know  nothing  about  anything.  Sometimes 
girls  really  love,  but  they  do  not  know  it.  Some- 


260         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

times  they  think  they  love  when  they  are  only 
excited  by  vanity.  Men  do  not  know  love  till  they 
are  at  least  thirty.  Women  cannot  even  dream 
what  it  is  before  they  are  twenty-five.  And  I  am 
only  twenty-seven  now.  Then  I  was  seventeen. 
It  is  a  thousand  years  since  then,  and  I  am  im 
mortal. 

"  Well,  at  Csorba  are  hotels,  and  though  we 
remained  in  the  mountain  above  the  lake,  the 
visitors  found  us  out.  At  least  one  did.  I  was 
singing  and  my  voice  was  floating  away  out  over 
the  lake.  Suddenly  a  man  broke  through  the 
bushes.  He  stared  at  me.  I  stared  at  him.  He 
was  not  young  and  he  was  ugly,  but  his  face  had 
power.  I  was  afraid  of  him.  He  told  me  that 
my  voice  was  worth  a  fortune.  Shall  I  tell  you 
all  that  he  said?  It  is  not  worth  while.  I  fell 
under  the  spell  of  his  power.  I  thought  I  loved 
him.  In  a  week  he  carried  me  away  secretly  to 
Vienna  to  study,  and  also  to  be  his  mistress. 
Ferencz  shot  himself  at  the  door  of  my  empty 
tent.  I  did  not  know  it  then.  I  was  still  a  girl. 
I  knew  nothing.  I  only  wished  to  enjoy,  to  revel 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         261 

in  the  splendors  of  the  new  world  which  had 
opened  itself  to  me,  and  in  the  passion  of  this 
man  of  strange  power.  The  intendant  of  the  first 
opera  house  in  which  I  was  asked  to  sing  made 
love  to  me  and  I  laughed  at  him.  Then  my  mas 
ter — for  that  was  what  he  was — beat  me.  Yes, 
Leander,  you  need  not  start  like  that.  I,  Nagy 
Bosanska,  have  been  beaten  like  a  dog  and  have 
cringed  before  a  man.  But  he  was  a  devil.  He 
wished  me  to  sell  myself.  He  said  that  only  thus 
could  I  succeed  in  the  theater.  That  is  why  when 
my  education  was  completed  and  I  could  sing  as 
you  have  heard  me  and  speak  six  languages  and 
had  steeped  my  mind  in  poetry  and  art,  I  stole 
out  one  black  night  alone  and  left  Vienna.  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  going  to  do.  I  meant  only 
to  escape  from  that  devil.  And  I  did.  I  found 

a  train  going  southward  over  the  Semmering.     I 

> 

went  to  Venice  and  thence  further  southward  and 
at  last  I  came  to  Palermo,  and  there  I  paused. 
I  sought  an  interview  with  the  musical  director. 
I  was  beautiful.  He  received  me.  I  could  sing; 
he  listened.  He  made  love  to  me.  I  laughed  at 


262         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

him.  He  was  dazed  and  he  engaged  me.  I 
changed  my  name  to  Elena  Tataria.  I  kept  that 
name  while  I  remained  in  Palermo.  It  was  after 
I  had  left  that  city  that  I  read  in  a  newspaper  of 
the  death  of  my  former  tyrant.  Then  my  heart 
no  longer  shook  within  me.  I  resumed  my  own 
given  name,  Nagy,  and  added  Bosanska,  for  I  am 
a  Hungarian  patriot,  and  I  will  have  no  name  that 
is  not  of  my  own  soil." 

Nagy  paused  once  more.  The  sun  had  long 
before  passed  below  the  hills.  The  lambent  twi 
light  of  the  north  was  filling  the  sky.  Here  and 
there  lights  winked  in  the  windows  of  distant 
houses.  Boats  moving  on  the  river  cast  black 
shadows.  Waiters  turned  on  electric  lamps  in  the 
darker  corners  of  the  terrace.  Crowds  sur 
rounded  Nagy  and  Leander,  but  the  wise  ober- 
kellner  saw  that  none  came  too  close  to  them. 
He  had  learned  from  the  Polish  Jew  who  Nagy 
was  and  he  foresaw  trinkgeld  in  marks,  not  pfen- 
nige.  Leander  ordered  allasch  for  himself  and 
the  soprano.  Then  she  continued  with  her  story. 

"  I  shall  not  bury  you  under  all  the  details  of 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          263 

my  life.  But  this  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  studied 
myself.  I  am  a  thing  of  flame,  as  a  true  gipsy 
should  be.  I  am  blown  hither  and  thither  by  the 
wind  of  circumstance.  I  sometimes  smolder  and 
sometimes  blaze,  but  I  never  die.  I  have  sounded 
all  the  depths  of  human  passion  and  I  have  fath 
omed  the  meaning  of  the  human  heart.  And 
always  I  have  turned  from  it  to  Nature.  You, 
my  dear  Baroni,  have  never  learned  to  be  a  part 
of  creation.  You  dwell  by  yourself,  shut  up 
within  the  narrow  walls  of  your  own  ego.  You 
are  all-sufficient.  That  is  why  you  are  not  an 
artist." 

Leander  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair  and 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  Nagy  checked  him 
with  a  gesture. 

"  '  Oh,  Providence,  vouchsafe  me  one  day  of 
pure  joy!  Long  has  the  echo  of  perfect  felicity 
been  absent  from  my  heart.  When,  oh  when, 
oh,  Thou  divine  one,  shall  I  feel  it  again  in  na 
ture's  temple  and  in  man's?  Never?  Ah,  that 
would  be  too  hard!  ' 

These   extraordinary  sentences   flowed   out   in 


264         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Nagy's   deepest  tones.    Leander   stared   at   her. 

"  Surely,  Nagy,  those  words  are  not  your 
own,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  reverently  inclining  her 
beautiful  head,  "  they  are  Beethoven's.  Note, 
Baroni,  my  friend,  he  unites  nature's  temple  with 
man's.  Beethoven  was  an  artist.  He  knew  that 
the  education  of  a  soul  must  be  sought  in  the 
study  of  nature  and  life.  You  have  studied 
neither.  You  have  not  even  seen  them.  Your 
eyes  are  turned  inward.  You  see  only  Baroni, 
and  only  the  surface  of  that." 

"  You  are  rather  hard  on  me,  Nagy,"  he  said 
with  a  deprecatory  smile.  "  I  have  seen  you." 

She  laughed  aloud. 

"  My  dear  Baroni,  I  have  already  told  you  that 
you  have  seen  nothing  except  my  surface.  I  have 
seen  your  soul.  And  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  save 
it.  For  it  is  in  deep  peril.  The  soul  that  sleep- 
eth,  it  is  lost.  When  I  began  to  sing  I  sang  as 
you  do,  with  my  voice.  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
getting  success  that  way.  But  I  cared  nothing  for 
success.  I  cared  only  for  my  own  joy  in  living. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         265 

I  was  battling  always  with  a  sorrow,  like  the 
great  master,  Beethoven.  Even  I,  the  poor  singer, 
suffered  the  pangs  of  disenchantment.  First  of 
all,  I  woke  to  know  that  I  had  thrown  away  the 
priceless  jewel  of  a  real  love,  a  love  which  would 
have  changed  the  whole  nature  of  my  life.  If  I 
had  become  the  wife  of  Ferencz,  I  would  have 
stayed  in  the  mountains  and  would  never  have 
learned  the  horrors  of  the  world.  I  could  never 
have  learned  that  men  are  satyrs  and  women  De- 
lilahs.  I  would  have  borne  children  and  obeyed 
my  lord  and  master  Ferencz  and  kissed  his  knees 
for  love.  I  would  have  dwelt  in  the  pit  of  ig 
norance,  but  I  would  have  had  the  love  of  the 
only  man  who  ever  saw  my  soul;  for  he  did  see 
it.  And  we  two  would  have  grown  together  to 
be  as  great  as  the  old  Pagan  gods  and  the  earth 
would  have  been  our  garden.  All  that  I  threw 
away  because  I  was  a  girl  and  a  fool  when  '  I  saw 
the  vision  of  the  world  and  all  the  wonder  that 
would  be.'  But  the  soul  of  Nagy  Bosanska  was 
not  born  to  perish.  Alone  it  has  triumphed.  It 
has  grown.  I  have  lived.  I  am  a  power." 


266         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Leander  smiled  one  of  his  indulgent  smiles.  He 
enjoyed  hearing  Nagy  boast  of  this  mysterious 
power,  although  he  could  not  comprehend  what 
she  meant  by  it. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Nagy,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have 
the  advantage  of  you.  I,  too,  am  a  power  and 
the  world  is  at  my  feet  and  I  suffer  nothing." 

"  'By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips:  and  all  of  great 
Or  good  or  lovely  which  the  lovely  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates  he  felt 
And  knew.'  " 

Nagy  chanted  the  lines  in  flute-like  tones  and 
fixed  a  Delphic  gaze  on  Leander  as  she  did  so. 

"  What  on  earth  is  that,  Nagy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Some  lines  from  a  poem  by  one  of  your  Eng 
lish  poets,  Shelley  by  name.  Read  *  Alastor,'  Ba- 
roni.  And  better  still,  read  Byron's  *  Manfred.7 
I  am  both.  Both  should  have  been  women.  Men 
do  not  feel  as  they  felt." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         267 

"  Nagy,  you  talk  wonderfully.  You  ought  to 
write  a  novel." 

"  Novels  are  written  by  babblers,  and  read  by 
children.  But  life  is  not  a  fairy  tale.  And  now 
I  tell  you  once  more  that  you  will  awaken.  Give 
me  your  hand  and  cross  my  palm  with  silver.  The 
gipsy  will  read  your  fortune." 

"  Oh,  come,  Nagy,  that's  all  nonsense,  you 
know,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Scoff  not  at  that  which  you  do  not  understand. 
Do  as  I  bid  you." 

Still  laughing,  he  drew  a  mark  from  his  pocket 
and  placed  it  in  her  palm.  She  looked  swiftly 
at  his  hand  and  then  gazed  intently  into  his 
eyes. 

"  I  see  a  storm.  The  strength  that  is  sufficient 
unto  itself  will  be  shattered,  but  out  of  the  wreck 
will  rise  another  strength,  which  will  be  as  great 
as  the  faith  of  a  child,  and  it  will  rule.  I,  Na'gy 
Bosanska,  the  gipsy,  have  spoken." 

There  was  a  moment  of  intense  silence  between 
them,  while  Leander  felt  vaguely  the  throbbings 
of  some  strange  power  within  him.  Then  Nagy 


268         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  burst  into  a  low  ripple 
of  exquisite  laughter. 

"  Come,"  she  said;  "let  us  go.  You  are  still 
a  fool,  my  friend." 

They  rode  back  through  the  soft,  starry  Sep 
tember  night  almost  without  a  word.  Nagy,  pro 
found,  Delphic  Nagy,  permitted  her  spell  to  work. 
She  knew  that  the  revelation  which  she  had 
made  had  powerfully  affected  her  lover.  He  was 
sunk  in  thought.  Ever  and  anon  he  glanced  fur 
tively  at  her  and  in  the  glance  were  passion,  adora 
tion,  wonder,  worship.  Nagy  read  the  swift 
glances  in  the  dim  light  of  the  stars.  She  knew 
that  she  had  drawn  him  closer  to  her  with  a  new 
and  fervent  interest.  She  was  certain  that  the 
victory  was  hers.  His  feeble  curiosity  in  regard 
to  his  wife  would  vanish.  He  would  go  forward 
to  St.  Petersburg,  not  back  to  Paris. 

****** 

Helen  waited  in  vain  for  some  sign  that  her 
campaign  in  the  French  capital  had  yielded  her  a 
victory.  When  she  read  of  the  continued  public 
successes  of  Leander  and  Nagy,  she  knew  that  she 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         269 

had  lost.  But  later  she  fell  a  prey  to  a  consuming 
hunger  to  see  her  husband's  face,  to  hear  his  voice 
once  more.  And  when  the  time  had  come,  she 
traveled  southward. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

\  WINTER'S  snows  cover  the  workings  of 
-*•  •*-  many  strange  forces  of  nature.  Among 
other  things  which  can  develop  in  the  dark  months 
are  the  impulses  of  a  human  heart.  Leander  and 
Nagy  sang  together  in  Berlin  and  then  traveled 
northward  into  the  land  of  the  Little  Father.  The 
splendors  of  St.  Petersburg  were  new  to  them, 
but  they  conquered  that  capital  just  as  they  had 
conquered  others  before  they  saw  it.  The  bril 
liant  and  amiable  Russians  made  much  of  them. 
They  went  to  Moscow  and  stood  in  the  low- 
vaulted  chapel  where  Ivan  the  Terrible  had  sat 
in  the  dark  corner  and  marked  his  victims  and 
where  Napoleon  had  afterward  slept.  They 
heard  the  wondrous  music  of  the  great  choir  in 
the  Church  of  the  Annunciation.  They  saturated 
themselves  in  the  marvels  of  the  Tartar  city. 

And  perhaps  it  was  here  that  something  began 

to  develop  within  Leander.    He  knew  not  what  it 

270 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          271 

was,  but  for  some  reason  the  words  of  Nagy 
began  to  have  a  new  meaning  for  him.  He  was 
continually  lost  in  amazement  at  the  breadth  and 
depth  of  her  learning.  In  St.  Petersburg  she 
spoke  to  the  people  in  the  streets  in  their  own 
language.  In  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Isaak  she  told 
Leander  the  significance  of  the  text  of  a  mass.  In 
Moscow  she  explained  to  him  the  Oriental  archi 
tecture.  She  went  out  into  the  country  with  him 
and  she  told  him  what  the  peasants  were  saying 
and  doing.  Belated  once  in  a  driving  snow,  she 
directed  their  driver  to  stop  at  a  small  inn  by  the 
roadside  and  entered  without  hesitation  a  grimy, 
smoky  room,  peopled  by  low-browed,  sulky-look 
ing  peasants.  It  was  plain  that  they  resented  the 
presence  of  the  two  aristocrats.  Leander  did  not 
like  the  appearance  of  things,  but  Nagy  smiled 
and  addressed  the  peasants. 

She  called  them  little  brothers  and  asked  them 
if  they  knew  a  certain  fable  of  Kryloff  about  a 
swallow  and  the  wolves  who  fed  it  when  it  was 
hungry.  They  declared  that  they  did  not.  They 
knew  all  the  fables  of  Kryloff,  but  they  had  not 


272         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

heard  this  one.  Thereupon  Nagy  told  it  to  them 
and  they  figuratively  took  her  to  their  hearts, 
called  her  little  mother,  and  vowed  she  should 
have  all  that  was  in  the  house.  And  so  she  and 
Leander  were  feasted.  And  afterward  she  asked 
for  a  balalaika  and  when  they  brought  it  to  her, 
she  played  her  own  accompaniment  while  she  sang 
them  a  wondrous  song  about  the  Kamarinsky 
peasant.  When  she  and  Leander  drove  away,  the 
peasants  shouted  blessings  after  them. 

"  How  comes  it  that  you  knew  one  of  their 
own  fables  which  they  themselves  did  not  know?  " 
asked  Leander  after  the  inn  was  far  behind 
them. 

"  Oh,  sweet  innocent,  there  is  no  such  fable. 
I  invented  it  for  our  need." 

"  And  you  know  the  fables  of  Kryloff  so  inti 
mately  that  you  can  imitate  them  well  enough  to 
deceive  Russian  peasants!  Nagy,  you're  a 
wizard." 

And  so  day  after  day  the  influence  of  this 
unique  nature  worked  upon  Leander  and  insensi 
bly  he  began  to  respond  to  it.  It  was  in  Moscow, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         273 

too,  that  he  began  to  perceive  that  his  mind  had 
focused  itself  upon  a  strange,  if  somewhat  intan 
gible  notion,  to  wit,  that  there  was  something  in 
the  public  estimation  of  Nagy  different  from  that 
in  which  he  was  held. 

At  first  he  rejected  the  thought  as  preposterous. 
Then  he  temporarily  comforted  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  people  naturally  bestowed  more  at 
tention  on  a  beautiful  and  seductive  woman  than 
on  a  man.  This  theory  quieted  his  mind  for 
a  long  time.  He  said  to  himself: 

"  Of  course  Nagy  does  sing  admirably,  but  it 
is  not  so  much  her  singing  as  her  temperament 
and  her  beauty  that  set  the  house  afire." 

But  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  Leander  found 
that  this  comfort  also  was  denied  him,  for  he 
had  a  strange  and  indefinable  feeling  in  his  own 
breast  when  Nagy  rose  to  some  of  her  most  tem 
pestuous  outpours  of  dramatic  expression.  Le 
ander  would  not  admit  it  in  words,  but  he  was 
swayed  by  the  artistic  force  of  the  woman.  And 
then  he  suddenly  asked  himself  a  pertinent  ques 
tion  : 


274         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

u  I  have  been  singing  with  Nagy  a  long  time. 
How  is  it  that  I  never  felt  this  before?  " 

And  that  question  he  could  not  answer,  for  he 
had  not  yet  learned  enough  about  self-analysis  to 
perceive  that  it  was  his  own  slow  and  secret  spirit 
ual  growth  which  enabled  him  to  see  things  hith 
erto  hidden  from  him.  Nagy's  work  was  begin 
ning  to  bear  fruit.  The  sleeping  soul  was 
approaching  its  hour  of  awakening.  And  so 
through  all  the  winter  months  the  work  went  on. 
The  germs  of  spiritual  force,  which  had  so  long 
been  dormant  in  Leander,  began  to  vitalize  under 
the  snows  of  a  Russian  winter.  The  tenor  began 
to  have  new  and  strange  moods.  At  times  he 
would  shut  himself  up  in  solitary  reflection. 
These  periods  were  short  at  first,  but  gradually 
grew  longer.  But  each  of  them  was  followed  by 
a  mood  of  tumultuous  energy.  The  waves  were 
rising  in  the  stormy  spirit. 

When  the  Russian  engagement  had  ended  the 
two  singers  journeyed  slowly  southward.  It  was 
in  April  that  they  appeared  as  guests  in  a  few 
performances  at  the  Teatro  San  Carlo,  Naples. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          275 

Leander's  restlessness  had  grown  and  Nagy  was 
studying  him  closely.  Sometimes  he  plunged  into 
wildest  passion,  as  if  seeking  to  steep  his  soul  in 
oblivion.  Again  he  became  cool  and  restrained 
in  demeanor.  Nagy,  like  Venus  in  "  Tannhauser," 
strove  to  weave  anew  the  spell  of  her  enchant 
ments.  And  he,  like  Tannhauser,  would  from 
time  to  time  seize  his  spiritual  harp  and  sing  her 
praises.  But  the  ice  was  becoming  thin  and  Nagy 
had  a  faint  cold  fear  at  her  heart,  for  even  as 
Venus  deeply  loved  Tannhauser,  so  she  had  come 
to  love  Leander. 

Their  first  appearance  together  was  made  in 
'  Tosca."  Here,  of  course,  the  great  glory  of 
the  evening  fell  to  the  soprano,  but  there  was  a 
singular  burst  of  emotion  through  the  house  at 
the  opening  of  the  third  act.  Leander  sang  the 
recitatives  apathetically,  but  when  he  came  to  the 
cantabile,  the  first  words,  "  Oh,  dolci  baci,  o  Ian- 
guide  carezze,"  seemed  to  open  some  secret  spring 
in  his  soul.  For  the  first  time  in  his  entire  op 
eratic  career  he  did  something  more  than  sing  the 
air  with  tonal  perfection  and  exquisitely  finished 


276         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

nuance.  He  published  its  meaning.  He  became 
really  eloquent.  The  house  rang  with  plaudits. 
He  seemed  unable  to  comprehend  the  reason.  He 
sank  back  into  his  former  apathy  and  finished  his 
role  mechanically.  He  nearly  ruined  the  duet 
with  Nagy  by  reason  of  his  icy  coldness.  The 
Neapolitans  almost  shouted  "  Bah  "  at  him.  If 
he  had  not  been  Baroni,  they  would  surely  have 
done  so,  but  they  forgave  him  because  his  phrasing 
was  perfect. 

Leander  went  back  to  the  hotel  after  the  per 
formance  quite  tired  out.  "  Tosca  "  had  wearied 
him.  Two  nights  later  he  was  to  sing  Don  Jose 
to  Nagy's  Carmen.  The  very  thought  of  it  al 
most  sickened  him.  He  wondered  if  he  might 
not  be  suddenly  indisposed.  Then  in  an  instant 
his  egotism  began  to  push  itself  forward.  Why 
should  he  not  sing?  Nagy  had  been  enjoying  all 
the  success.  As  Don  Jose  he  was  at  his  best.  He 
would  sing.  He  would  triumph  over  Nagy,  espe 
cially  in  the  last  act.  He  would  show  her  that  he, 
too,  could  have  temperament  when  it  was  neces 
sary.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  splendors 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         277 

of  his  voice  and  style  in  the  flower  song.  Yes, 
in  Don  Jose  he  would  teach  his  mistress  a  lesson. 

He  was  early  at  the  theater.  He  did  not  see 
the  assembling  of  the  audience.  The  Piazza  San 
Ferdinando  and  the  Strada  San  Carlo  were 
crowded  with  equipages  and  pedestrians.  The 
nobility  and  the  proletariat  jostled  one  another 
in  the  streets.  The  boxes  and  the  galleries  were 
packed.  The  fame  of  the  interpretations  of  the 
two  forestieri  had  spread  through  the  town,  de 
spite  the  honorable  endeavors  of  the  local  musical 
journals  to  convince  every  one  that  only  Italians 
could  disclose  the  real  contents  of  Bizet's  work. 

The  first  act  went  with  a  fine  vitality.  Leander 
had  an  excellent  companion  in  the  Italian  Micaela 
and  the  duet  was  beautifully  sung.  The  applause 
was  tumultuous.  Nagy  gained  no  more  for  her 

Habanera.     She  was  happy,  for  she  rejoiced  in 

> 

Leander's  success.  He  told  her  that  he  rejoiced 
in  hers.  He  lied.  He  had  a  canker  at  heart, 
something  that  he  could  not  explain.  The  curtain 
rose  on  the  second  act.  More  people  had  entered 
the  house.  Certain  persons  of  distinction  who 


278         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

always  went  late  had  come  to  occupy  their  boxes. 
The  dance  was  intoxicating.  Nagy  flung  herself 
into  its  closing  measures  with  all  the  sinuous  grace 
and  abandon  given  to  her  by  her  gipsy  nature.  To 
her  it  was  but  another  form  of  the  friss  of  the 
Czardas.  The  Escamillo  was  a  shouting  Italian, 
who  tore  the  Toreador  song  to  tatters  to  the  in 
expressible  delight  of  the  gallery.  Everything 
went  with  a  swing  till  Nagy  had  hurled  the  inevi 
table  chair  up  the  stage  and  pitched  the  accouter-  - 
ments  of  the  discomfited  Don  Jose  at  him,  bidding 
him  to  begone.  And  then  Leander  poised  himself 
for  the  triumph  of  the  flower  song.  Nagy  sank 
into  a  seat  and  he  bent  over  her  as  he  let  the 
opening  measures  flow  from  his  throat  in  those 
entrancing  tones  which  had  mastered  two  conti 
nents.  And  at  this  moment  he  looked  past  Nagy 
into  the  lower  box  on  the  right  of  the  stage  and 
full  into  the  eyes  of  his  wife. 

The  phrase  which  he  was  singing  broke  in  two 
in  the  middle.  He  felt  his  breath  rush  from  him 
in  a  sharp,  convulsive  gasp.  He  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  regain  control  of  it.  A  fiery  red  cloud 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         279 

rushed  before  his  eyes.  He  threw  his  hands  over 
them.  He  hurled  his  diaphragm  upward  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  will.  No  sound  came.  He 
heard  strange  indefinable  noises  in  the  house. 
They  sounded  like  hisses  and  execrations.  There 
is  no  audience  in  the  world  so  swift  to  proclaim 
its  opinions  as  that  of  San  Carlo.  Leander 
straightened  himself  up.  He  dragged  his  gaze 
away  from  that  marvelous,  proud,  beautiful  face, 
which  had  burst  upon  him  like  a  vision  from  para 
dise.  The  next  instant  the  fiery  red  cloud  blinded 
him  and  blackness  followed  it.  He  fell  prone 
upon  the  stage  in  a  faint. 

Wild  confusion  followed.  The  curtain  was 
rung  down  and  Nagy  strove  with  her  own  lovely 
hands  to  gather  him  into  her  arms.  Men  hurried 
upon  the  stage  and  the  tenor  was  carried  to  his 
dressing-room.  A  physician  was  summoned.  A 
quick  examination  showed  that  nothing  serious 
had  befallen  the  singer.  A  touch  of  vertigo,  that 
was  all,  the  physician  declared.  Oh,  yes,  he  would 
assuredly  be  able  to  finish  the  performance.  Le 
ander,  who  had  recovered  his  consciousness  by 


280         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

this  time,  looked  up  and  smiled.  Something  of 
the  bulldog  feeling  of  college  days  came  back  to 
him.  He  murmured: 

"  I  shall  finish.    No  fear  that  I  shall  not." 
Nagy  bent  over  him  with  cooing  words,  but  he 
quietly  waved  her  away.    The  stage  manager  went 
before  the  curtain  and  told  the  audience  that  the 
great  Signer  Baroni  had  unfortunately  been  at 
tacked  by  vertigo,  but  that  in  a  few  minutes,  a  very 
few  minutes,  he  would  be  able  to  continue  the, 
performance.     If  the  highly  honorable  signoras 
and  signers  would  kindly  be  patient,  it  would  be 
well.     Meanwhile  Leander  had  whispered  to  his 
valet  to  clear  the  room.    The  physician  had  done 
all  that  he  could,  but  there  were  still  several  per 
sons  in  the  little  space.     Leander  wished  to  be 
alone.     Every  one  went  out  except  Nagy.     She 
of  course  remained.     Leander  sat  up  and  took  a 
drink  of  brandy.     Then  he  gazed  at  Nagy  with 
a  long,  thoughtful  gaze.     She  returned  the  look 
with  melting  eyes.     Leander  studied  the  eyes  as 
if  they  were  some  strange  freak  of  nature  which 
had  never  before  come  within  the  sphere  of  his 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         281 

experience.     Nagy  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a 
cold  feeling  at  heart.    Leander  rose. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  go  and  finish  the  act. 
We  have  played  our  little  tragedy  out  to  the  end. 
Now  we  must  play  that  for  which  the  audience  is 
waiting." 

They  returned  to  the  stage.  The  curtain  was 
raised  again.  The  audience  applauded  wildly. 
The  orchestra  resumed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
flower  song.  And  this  time  Leander  sang  it  to  the 
end,  but  as  he  had  never  sung  it  before  in  all  his 
remarkable  career.  Not  once  during  the  delivery 
of  the  song  did  he  look  into  the  eyes  of  Nagy, 
but  always  past  them  into  that  box  on  the  right  of 
the  stage.  And  there  was  something  poignant  in 
the  quality  of  his  tone,  something  which  seemed 
new.  When  he  sang  the  last  words,  "  Lo  schiavo 
suo,  Carmen,  mi  fe,"  he  was  still  looking  past 
Nagy  into  that  box.  Helen  sat  erect  and  jus-t*  a 
trifle  pale.  When  Leander  had  fallen,  she  had 
turned  swiftly  to  the  Duchess  of  Fiesole,  whose 
guest  she  was,  and  said  some  words.  An  at 
tendant  had  been  despatched  to  the  stage  with  an 


282         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

inquiry  and  the  answer  had  been  reassuring.  The 
act  ended  in  a  storm  of  applause.  Leander  ap 
peared  with  Nagy  time  and  time  again  to  receive 
the  approval  of  the  audience,  but  he  would  not 
look  into  her  face.  Nor  did  he  look  into  the  box. 
Now  that  the  lights  were  turned  up,  he  stared  with 
a  fixed  gaze  into  the  center  of  the  house.  When 
the  recalls  had  ended,  the  tenor  dropped  the  hand 
of  his  associate,  turned  his  back  upon  her,  and 
walked  quickly  to  his  dressing-room  to  change  his 
costume  for  the  third  act.  But  Nagy  was  close 
upon  his  heels.  Panting  and  flushed,  she  made 
a  swift  sign  to  the  valet,  who  slipped  from  the 
room,  and  left  her  alone  with  Leander. 

4  You  are  a  master  to-night,  my  friend,"  she 
said. 

Leander,  who  had  not  noted  her  movements, 
wheeled  and  confronted  her  with  glowing  eyes. 

"  You  devil  from  hell,"  he  said  in  tense,  low 
tones;  "  it  was  you  who  led  me  away  from  my 
faith." 

"  Your  faith,  my  dear  Baroni?  Really,  that  is 
something  of  which  I  never  heard  before." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         283 

If  you  value  your  life,  don't  try  sarcasm  with 


me." 


There  was  something  in  his  eyes  that  made 
Nagy  for  the  first  time  shrink  from  him.  But 
the  flaming  little  gipsy  had  not  bowed  her  spirit 
before  a  man's  since  she  trembled  before  the  man 
of  power  who  beat  her.  She  bravely  smiled  up 
into  Leander's  face  and  murmured: 

"  Mon  ami,  I  mean  no  sarcasm.  I  love 
you." 

"  You  love  me!    You!" 

"  Yes,  I.  Dare  you  hint  that  I  do  not?  I  have 
taught  you  to  see  your  own  soul." 

"  My  soul !  Great  God !  "  he  cried.  "  I  have 
a  soul  and  where  is  it?  What  have  I  done  with 
it?" 

"  You  are  ungrateful,  my  dear  Leander.  Do 
you  regret  that  you  are  now  wiser?  When  I  took 
you  to  my  heart  you  were  a  block,  a  dolt,  a  blind, 
dumb  thing  that  knew  only  itself.  You  have  made 
some  progress,  but  you  are  still  only  at  the  bor 
ders  of  discovery.  You  are  as  a  little  puppy  that 
has  just  opened  its  eyes  and  seen  the  glare  of  the 


284         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

sun.     You  are  dazzled  by  new  thoughts.     You 


are- 


"  Silence,  you  Jezebel!  I  am  what  I  am,  and 
much  of  that  is  what  you  have  made  me.  You 
prate  to  me  of  soul.  But  you  have  wound  round 
me  the  damnable  bonds  of  sense.  You  have  made 
of  me  a  slave  of  desire.  You  have  steeped  me  in 
the  passion  of  the  flesh.  But  at  last  I  see  myself 
as  I  am.  I  am  ashamed  to  the  heart's  core.  I  cry 
for  liberty.  I  will  have  it!  " 

(  Tannhauser,  Act  I,  scene  i,'  "  said  Nagy 
bitterly.  *  You  wish  to  go  back  to  your  pale  and 
holy  Elizabeth,  my " 

"  Damn  you!  "  he  cried;  "  don't  you  dare  to 
speak  of  her.  She  is  not  for  us  to  discuss.  I  am 
shut  out  of  her  life  and  well  you  know  it.  You 
have  done  that.  But  I  shall  be  out  of  yours,  too." 

Nagy  gazed  at  him  intently.  Could  it  be  that 
in  awakening  his  soul,  which  was  so  assuredly 
stirring  to  life,  she  had  robbed  herself  of  his 
passion?  No,  he  was  not  ready  for  that.  She 
raised  her  face  with  a  great  yearning  upon  it  and 
said: 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         285 

"  Baroni,  I  love  you.  You  have  no  right  to 
speak  to  me  as  you  do.  If  I  took  you,  remember 
that  I  also  gave  myself." 

"  As  you  had  done  a  dozen  times  before,"  he 
interrupted  bitterly. 

"  Generous  words,  are  they  not?  But  I  for 
give.  I  shall  not  give  you  up." 

"  Go,  go !  "  he  cried;  "  you  cannot  keep  me." 

He  thrust  her  from  the  room  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  her.  With  feverish  fingers  he  tore 
open  his  garments  and  began  to  change  his  cos 
tume  for  the  third  act.  His  dresser,  finding  that 
the  soprano  had  departed,  returned  to  help  him. 
He  began  the  act  in  a  mood  of  perfect  composure. 
He  was  dimly  conscious  of  that  strange  new  power 
which  he  had  lately  felt  within  him,  but  he  could 
not  grasp  it,  he  could  not  define  it,  he  could  not 
control  it.  He  only  knew  that  something  above 
and  beyond  him  was  urging  him,  he  knew  not 
whither.  Until  he  found  himself  facing  Nagy  in 
the  last  scene  of  the  act  he  was  coldly  imperative 
in  his  treatment  of  the  role.  His  struggle  with 
Escamillo  had  in  it  something  of  contempt.  But 


286         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

when  he  once  more  saw  Nagy,  this  time  in  the 
habiliments  of  a  gipsy  which  sat  upon  her  with 
native  grace  and  deviltry,  his  wrath  again  rose 
within  him.  The  people  on  the  stage  started  in 
astonishment  at  the  new  timbre  which  his  tones 
assumed  when  he  delivered  the  line: 

"  'Ah!  bada  a  te,  Carmen,  stanco  son  di  soffrir.'  ' 

Still  Nagy  lived  in  her  role  and  her  pitying 
glance  at  Micaela  was  equaled  by  her  affectation 
of  scorn  of  Don  Jose.  But  the  torrent  within 
Leander  burst  its  bonds  when  he  rushed  down  the 
stage  and  seized  Carmen  by  the  throat,  forcing 
her  to  the  ground  and  thundering  in  her  ears  the 
words : 

"  'E  forzare  tisapro 

A  subir  la  sorte  ingrata 
Che  due  vite  insiem  lego.' ' 

He  shook  Nagy  as  if  she  were  a  leaf  and  almost 
flattened  her  face  against  the  boards  of  the  stage. 
She  cried  out  in  choked  tones  with  the  pain  he 
inflicted.  The  people  on  the  stage  started  for- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR          287 

ward,  for  they  saw  there  was  something  more 
than  acting.  They  understood  that  an  intense 
tragedy  of  real  life  was  exhibited  in  its  last 
agonized  scene.  They  dimly  felt  that  here  was 
something  greater  than  the  familiar  liaison  of  the 
opera  house.  There  was  something  strange  and 
potent  and  appalling  in  the  relation  between  this 
Hungarian,  who  came  of  a  race  of  lawless  men 
and  women,  and  this  American,  who  was  an  illeg 
itimate  son  of  a  nation  of  money  grubbers.  The 
house  was  aroused  to  extravagant  demonstrations. 
Across  the  footlights  it  looked  like  a  brilliantly 
realistic  piece  of  acting  and  the  audience  was  as 
tonished  at  the  vigor  of  the  hitherto  cold  Amer 
icano. 

But  Nagy  was  not  deceived.  Crushed,  dishev 
eled,  breathless,  she  knew  that  her  dominion  over 
him  was  gone  forever.  She  had  tried  to  show 
him  his  soul  and  he  had  begun  to  see  the  light. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TT  THEN  the  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  final 
^  scene  of  the  most  remarkable  performance 
of  "  Carmen  "  within  the  memory  of  Neapolitans 
Leander  tore  off  the  rags  of  the  costume,  and 
breathing  a  profound  sigh,  said: 

"  That  was  my  last  Don  Jose.  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  sing  the  accursed  part  again." 

He  left  the  theater  quickly  and  alone.  Nagy 
might  find  her  own  way  to  the  hotel  or  to  Avernus. 
He  wished  only  that  he  might  never  again  look 
into  the  baleful  green  eyes  or  scent  the  seductive 
perfume  of  her  raven  hair.  She  had  a  horrible 
mastery  of  his  senses.  He  knew  it,  and  yet  he  felt 
that  the  hour  of  his  liberation  had  come.  Nagy 
had  spoken  much  of  souls.  She  dreamed  of  a 
love  in  which  the  perfect  agony  of  physical  pas 
sion  would  be  united  to  that  celestial  mingling  of 
spiritual  natures  which  poets  sang.  Leander  knew 

now  that  this  was  the  only  real  love,  that  this 

288 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         289 

was  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world,  the  thing 
which  raised  men  to  heights  beyond  those  occu 
pied  even  by  angels.  And  he  knew,  too,  that  he 
was  unfit  for  it,  that  he  had  been  as  Tannhauser, 
wallowing  in  the  miry  depths  of  sensuality.  Free 
dom,  freedom !  That  he  must  have.  And  yet  he 
hesitated  to  face  Nagy  alone  in  their  apartments 
at  the  hotel. 

The  night  was  soft  and  mild  and  a  young  April 
moon  swam  in  the  whitecapped  billows  of  an  in 
digo  sky.  It  was  warm  and  grateful  air  that  sang 
sweetly  out  of  the  hills.  Leander  hailed  a  cab, 
an  open  one,  and  told  the  cocchiere  to  drive  him 
out  to  the  Trattoria  Pallino.  Leander  had  no 
fear  about  entering  the  strictly  Italian  resorts  at 
night.  He  knew  the  people,  their  language,  and 
their  customs.  And  on  this  night  he  wished  to 
be  where  none  of  his  adulators  would  discover 
him. 

A  score  of  people  were  in  the  place  when  he 
entered.  He  was  not  recognized.  He  sat  in  a 
half-dark  corner  and  ate  his  supper  silently. 
Thought  hounded  him,  keen,  cutting,  aching 


29o         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

thought.  He  saw  again  the  pure  lines  of  that 
noble  face  which  had  gazed  at  him  out  of  the 
Fiesole  box.  He  realized  how  he  had  brought 
shame  and  sorrow  upon  Helen.  He  knew  that  she 
had  given  him  a  love  more  splendid  than  anything 
which  could  ever  enter  the  much-vaunted  "  soul 
of  Nagy  Bosanska."  He  knew  that  she  had  be 
stowed  upon  him  a  grand  passion  which  his  un 
developed  spirit  had  not  known  how  to  compre 
hend.  But  now  it  was  too  late.  He  had  placed 
between  her  and  himself  an  impassable  gulf.  She 
had  said  that  she  would  take  no  action,  but  that 
was  only  the  resolution  of  the  first  hours  of  her 
desertion.  Doubtless  the  time  would  come  when 
she  would  be  eager  to  obtain  her  freedom.  Per 
haps  she  might  find  consolation  in  that  newspaper 
fool.  He  seemed  to  be  a  great  friend  of  hers. 

Well,  whatever  she  did,  it  would  be  right.  He, 
Leander,  certainly  had  no  more  claim  upon  her. 
She  had  not  been  able  to  enter  into  his  artistic 
sphere  and  he  had  not  grasped  the  beauty  and 
bliss  of  her  self-effacement  in  the  love  she  gave 
him.  It  was  well  as  it  was.  He  would  continue 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         291 

to  go  his  way  and  she  would  go  hers.  And  then 
he  broke  down  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  For 
he  knew  that  in  spite  of  everything  he  still  loved 
her,  and  would  have  given  his  soul  to  have  her 
again  at  his  side.  He  lifted  his  head,  for  he  was 
dimly  aware  that  the  Italians  were  watching  him 
furtively.  He  called  the  waiter. 

"  Ho  mal  di  testa,"  he  said;  "  il  mio  conto." 
He  paid  his  bill,  and,  with  a  polite  u  Buona 
sera  "  to  the  assembly,  left  the  place.  He  rode 
slowly  back  to  his  hotel.  He  hoped  that  Nagy 
had  by  this  time  retired  and  would  be  sound 
asleep.  He  stole  into  his  own  room,  which  was 
separated  from  hers  by  a  small  salon.  He  sat 
down  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  Thought  still  bur 
dened  him.  He  knew  not  what  he  ought  to  do. 
His  mind  was  in  a  confusion.  His  spirit  was 
shaken  to  its  center.  He  undressed  and  got  into 
his  pajamas,  turned  out  the  lights,  and  stood  look 
ing  out  into  the  moonlit  night.  He  could  see  the 
dim  outlines  of  Ischia  away  out  on  the  sea  line 
at  his  right  and  the  rugged  back  of  Capri  looming 
on  the  left.  Here  and  there  a  shadowy  sail 


292         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

showed  where  the  night  fisherman  was  at  his  toil. 

"  Out  yonder  peace,  peace,"  murmured  the 
tenor,  as  he  leaned  against  the  casement. 

He  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  gentle  sigh  near  him, 
and,  turning,  saw  the  figure  of  Nagy  in  the  center 
of  his  room.  He  stared  at  her  and  caught  his 
breath.  Then  he  said  in  a  low,  hard  tone: 

"  Go  back  to  your  own  room." 

"  Not  till  I  have  said  a  word  to  you.  My 
friend,  you  were  very  brutal  with  me  on  the  stage 
to-night,  but  I  forgive  you,  for  you  were  an 
noyed." 

He  remained  silent,  gazing  at  her  coldly.  She 
could  feel  the  chill  of  it. 

"  You  are  unhappy,  are  you  not?  But  you  did 
not  mean  all  those  things  which  you  said  to  me  at 
the  theater  to-night.  You  called  me  a  devil.  You 
said  that  I  had  put  your  soul  in  torment.  You 
were  vexed;  but  you  did  not  mean  all  that." 

"  I  meant  every  word  and  every  act,"  he  said 
in  the  same  hard  tone. 

Nagy  shivered.  The  conviction  which  had 
come  upon  her  at  the  end  of  the  third  act  of  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         293 

opera  that  she  had  lost  her  power  over  him  as 
sailed  her  with  renewed  force.  But  she  would 
make  one  more  struggle.  She  stretched  her  arms 
out  toward  him  and  moved  slowly  forward,  with 
the  sinuous  undulations  of  her  beautiful  form  only 
half  hidden  by  the  slight  drapery  which  she  had 
thrown  around  it,  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders.  Then  she  drew  herself  to  him  till  she 
was  so  close  that  her  breath  fanned  his  cheek, 
while  she  murmured: 

"  Leander,  my  love,  my  love,  if  I  have  given 
you  any  suffering,  let  me  try  to  atone  for  it.  You 
must,  you  must.  It  is  my  right.  It  is  the  right  of 
my  great  love  for  you." 

The  tenor  stood  quite  moveless  and  his  hands 
remained  folded  behind  his  back.  He  looked  at 
her  calmly  and  steadily,  though  within  him  there 
still  rose  from  time  to  time  faint  waves  of  that 
old  thirst  of  the  blood,  which  had  consumed  trie 
dry  dust  of  his  brain  and  transformed  the  once 
gentle  current  of  his  veins  into  fire.  But  he  moved 
not  an  inch  toward  her.  He  regarded  her  ivory 
arms  and  her  swelling  bosom  with  unflickering 


294         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

eyes.  He  knew  perfectly  now  that  what  he  had 
felt  for  her  was  not  a  real  love. 

"  Go  back  to  your  own  room,  Nagy.  You  are 
fighting  against  the  inevitable.  I  cannot  speak  to 
you  as  I  would,  but  it  is  your  due  that  I  should 
at  least  try." 

He  paused  a  moment  as  if  gathering  his  forces 
for  the  last  blow,  and  then  in  the  same  low,  cold, 
hard  voice  he  continued: 

"  I  believe  that  you  speak  the  truth  when  you 
tell  me  that  you  have  loved  me.  I  am  shamed 
by  my  own  knowledge.  You  have  not  made  me 
suffer,  Nagy,  but  I  must  make  you.  I  must  con 
fess  that  I  have  never  given  you  what  you  have 
given  me.  I  have  taken,  like  a  man,  all  that  you 
laid  before  me.  You  have  done  for  me  more 
than  any  one  did  before  you.  You  told  me  many, 
many  wonderful  truths.  I  was  asleep.  You 
awakened  me.  You  have  led  me  through  mar 
velous  paths,  into  splendid  heights.  But  now  I 
am  in  the  valley  and  the  way  is  not  plain.  But 
one  thing  I  do  know,  and  that  one  thing  I  must 
tell  you.  It  is  the  only  honest  thing  I  have  done, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         295 

Nagy,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  given  you 
what  you  have  given  me.  I  have  loved  your 
beauty,  I  have  gone  mad  with  your  passion,  but 
I  have  only  been  a  primal  savage  man,  Nagy,  and 
it  is  all  over.  I  am  sorry;  I  wish  I  were  worthy 
of  you,  but  I  am  not.  You  are  a  thousand  times 
better  than  I  am.  I  tell  you  only  the  ugly  truth 
when  I  say  that  now  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  give 
you.  Everything  is  ended.  I  have  no  longer  the 
right  to  look  upon  your  beauty.  Go  back  to  your 


own  room." 


With  an  incredibly  swift  movement  she  glided 
backward  several  feet  and  gathered  her  draperies 
about  her  as  if  they  closed  the  world  between 
him  and  her.  She  stood  a  moment  like  an  antique 
statue.  Then  with  a  dry  sob  she  wheeled  and 
passed  into  her  own  chamber.  Leander  slowly 
turned  once  more  to  the  window,  leaned  against 
the  casement,  and  looked  out  upon  the  night  and 
the  sea. 

"  Out  yonder  peace,  peace,"  he  said. 

Before  the  next  evening  the  news  had  spread 
through  Naples  that  Signor  Baroni's  indisposition 


296         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

of  the  previous  night  had  proved  to  be  sufficient 
after  all  to  put  an  end  to  his  activities.  He  would 
sing  no  more  that  season.  In  fact  it  was  said  that 
he  had  already  left  the  city  on  a  steamer  of  the 
Servizi  Marittimi  bound  for  Constantinople  and 
Odessa. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

,  really,  it  is  quite  too  much  for  any  one 
to  endure,"  declared  Mrs.  Harley  Man 
ners,  as  she  purred  in  her  seat  at  the  first  general 
rehearsal  of  the  season.  '  You  know,  I  have  al 
ways  disliked  having  a  Monday  night  box,  for 
that  society  set  will  not  tolerate  any  of  the  great 
artistic  works.  But,  of  course,  you  know,  what 
is  one  to  do?  It  was  always  the  night  on  which 
that  adorable  Baroni  sang,  and  one  just  simply 
had  to  hear  him,  you  understand.  So  I  have 
always  had  my  Monday  night  box,  and  so,  don't 
you  see,  they  keep  it  for  me  from  season  to  sea 
son,  and  what  am  I  to  do?  I  naturally  have  to 
take  it.  But  I  can't  endure  that  society  set.  They 
are  such  stupid  people.  They  have  no  real  culture 
and  no  ideals  at  all." 

Philip  Studley  listened  to  her  with  commendable 
patience.     Mrs.    Manners    had    passed    through 

many    experiences   since   the   memorable    autumn 

297 


298         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

when  she  had  returned  from  Paris,  dazed  at  the 
sudden  blaze  of  Mrs.  Baroni's  glory.  Less  than 
a  week  after  she  had  reached  home,  her  husband 
had  quietly  curled  up  in  his  morning  bath  and 
passed  out  of  existence  by  the  quick  route  of 
heart  disease.  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  found  her 
self  a  not  altogether  inconsolable  widow,  with  a 
substantial  fortune  entirely  under  her  own  control. 
A  year  had  passed.  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  had 
threaded  her  way  discreetly,  but  with  some  agil 
ity,  through  the  various  phases  of  mourning,  and 
had  emerged  a  gentle  dove  of  exquisitely  gradu 
ated  black  and  white.  At  the  opening  of  the  sea 
son  there  were  even  hints  in  certain  not  too  con 
spicuous  corners  of  her  costume  that  crimson  roses 
would  soon  bloom  again. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  such  bad  accounts  of  the 
society  set  from  you,"  said  Philip.  "  But,  of 
course,  it  is  no  news.  Your  statements  only  agree 
with  what  others  have  told  me,  and  what  I  have 
picked  up  myself  from  a  few  unexpected  meet 
ings.  But  you  see,  we  social  pariahs  rather  laugh 
at  the  attitude  of  these  money  lords  and  ladies. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         299 

They  have  no  social  position  except  what  they 
buy.  And  they  can't  buy  their  way  into  all  the 
worlds,  you  know.  Did  you  ever  notice  how  sel 
dom  an  American  heiress  catches  a  German 
noble?" 

Mrs.  Manners  sat  up  and  stared.  No,  she  cer 
tainly  had  not  thought  of  that. 

u  But  American  society  people  are  received  in 
the  finest  houses  in  France,"  she  said. 

'Yes,  received,"  said  Philip,  with  meaning; 
"  but  they  never  lead,  as  they  do  in  London." 

'  Your  friend,  Mrs.  Baroni,  seems  to  me  to  be 
a  good  deal  of  a  leader  in  Paris." 

"  Mrs.  Baroni  was  never  in  society  here.  She 
belongs  to  a  set  which  looks  upon  our  so-called 
society  with  quiet  contempt.  I  never  saw  any  of 
them  at  her  house  in  Paris." 

'  Why,  have  you  been  in  Paris?     When?  " 

> 

"  I  was  there  for  a  short  time  last  spring,  just 
after  Mrs.  Baroni  returnee!  to  Paris  from  Italy. 
She  was  not  very  well  for  a  few  days.  She  gave 
some  brilliant  entertainments,  to  all  of  which  she 
did  me  the  honor  to  invite  me.  Then  un- 


300         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

expectedly  she  closed  her  Paris  residence,  and 
went  to  the  north.  Now  she  has  returned  to  New 
York." 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners.  "  I  am  certainly  out  of  the  world.  I 
did  not  know  any  of  this  at  all.  I  must  call  on  her 
at  once." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  some  difficulty  in 
seeing  her.  She  is  keeping  herself  in  the  greatest 
seclusion." 

"  Is  she  not  in  good  health?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  perfect.  But  while  her  husband  is 
singing  in  the  East,  she  does  not  feel  like  going 
out." 

Mrs.  Harley  Manners  ruminated.  It  was  a 
very  lame  explanation,  she  thought.  But  murder 
and  social  gossip  will  out,  as  she  well  knew,  and  so 
she  had  only  to  wait.  When  the  rehearsal  had 
moved  its  wearisome  progress  as  far  as  the  be 
ginning  of  the  second  act,  Philip  quietly  departed. 
He  had  an  engagement  of  which  he  had  naturally 
made  no  mention  to  the  vivacious  Mrs.  Harley 
Manners.  He  was  to  meet  Helen  at  the  Holland 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         301 

House  for  luncheon.  She  was  waiting  for  him 
when  he  arrived. 

"  Philip,"  said  she  when  they  had  finished  their 
first  course,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  where  Mile. 
Bosanska  is  stopping." 

"  My  dear  Helen,  did  you  ask  me  to  luncheon 
only  to  make  that  important  inquiry?  You 
could  easily  have  found  that  out  at  the  opera 
house." 

"  I  do  not  desire  to  have  any  one  know  that  I 
have  made  the  inquiry.  That  is  why  I  make  it  of 
you." 

"  My  dear  Helen,  of  course.  She  is  not  at 
her  old  apartment  this  season.  You  will  find  her 
in  a  new  one  on  the  other  side  of  town.  I  heard 
of  it  myself  only  yesterday  from  our  man  who 
covers  the  musical  news." 

And  Philip  told  her  the  number  and  street. 

"  I  am  going  to  call  on  her,"  said  Helen  in  a 
calm  tone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Helen,  but  you  ought 
not  to  do  that,  you  know." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  very  thing  I  must 


302         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

do.  I  do  not  know  where  Leander  is,  and  his 
agent  here  will  not  tell  me.  He  firmly  but  po 
litely  declares  that  his  instructions  are  to  give  no 
information  to  any  one,  not  even  me." 

"Well,  I'm  blessed!  But  do  you  think  Mile. 
Bosanska  knows?  Was  there  not  a  story  of  a 
quarrel  between  them  in  Naples?  " 

'  There  undoubtedly  was  a  quarrel,  and  he  left 
the  city,  but  she  followed  him  within  a  week.  I 
am  sure  she  knows  where  he  is,  and  I  think  I 
have  a  right  to  know." 

;'  Do  you  write  to  him  ?  " 

"I  have  written  to  him;  there  are  important 
business  matters;  I  have  sent  letters  to  his  Paris 
address.  I  have  had  no  answers." 

"  But  what  good  can  come  of  your  going  to 
Mile.  Bosanska?  Let  me  go  for  you.  Oh,  no, 
I  forgot.  She  would  laugh  at  me.  Can't  you 
send,  or,  better,  why  not  write?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  see  her,  to  look  her  in  the  face, 
to  talk  to  her." 

Philip  gazed  with  some  astonishment  at  Helen. 
There  was  a  ring  of  power  in  her  voice.  She  had 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         303 

risen  as  if  to  meet  an  emergency.  That  same 
afternoon  she  arrived  at  Mile.  Bosanska's  apart 
ment.  The  maid  told  her  that  the  singer  was 
lying  down,  and  could  see  no  one. 

"  Go  and  tell  your  mistress  that  I  shall  wait 
till  she  gets  up,"  said  Helen,  and  the  maid  hur 
riedly  went.  Presently  she  returned  and  bade 
Helen  enter  the  salon  and  be  seated.  In  a  few 
minutes  Nagy,  clad  in  a  loose  peignoir,  en 
tered. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  "  I  need  hardly  apologize 
for  appearing  in  this  costume.  You  could  not 
have  expected  to  wait  till  I  made  a  toilet." 

"  I  am  satisfied  to  see  you  as  you  are,  Mile. 
Bosanska,"  said  Helen.  "  I  am  here  to  ask  you 
a  pointed  question,  a  very  strange  and  humiliating 
question,  but  I  must  do  it.  Where  is  my  hus 
band?" 

Nagy  started  as  if  she  had  been  struck  full  in 
the  face. 

"  My  God !  "  she  cried  with  anguish  unmistak 
able  in  her  tone,  "  I  do  not  know !  " 

"You  do  not  know?" 


304         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  No.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  lie  to 
you  now?  I  do  not  know  where  he  is.  I  know 
that  he  is  lost  to  me,  and  that  I  still  love 
him." 

Helen  rose  from  her  seat,  pale  and  trembling. 
*  You  do  not  hesitate  to  tell  me,  his  wife,  that 
you  love  him?  " 

;'  Why  should  I  ?  You  know  that  he  and  I  have 
been  together;  but  surely  you  did  not  think  me  a 
thing  of  the  gutter !  You  may  be  a  proud  woman, . 
Madame,  but  your  pride  is  no  greater  than  mine. 
I  gave  myself  because  of  the  joy  I  found  in  giv 
ing." 

Helen  walked  across  the  room,  endeavoring  to 
grip  herself  well  before  answering.  When  she 
felt  that  she  could  speak  steadily,  she  returned  and 
faced  Nagy. 

"  You  and  I,  I  fear,  cannot  stand  upon  the 
same  ground  in  this  matter.  I  am  willing  to  be 
lieve  that,  as  you  say,  you  gave  yourself  for  the 
sheer  joy  of  giving.  So  did  I.  Perhaps  that 
has  not  occurred  to  you." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  believe  you  think  you  love." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         305 

Helen  smiled,  and  for  a  few  moments  remained 
silent  in  order  that  Nagy  might,  perhaps,  gather 
the  full  significance  of  her  next  words. 

"  Can  you  or  any  other  woman  do  more  than 
think  she  loves  ?  Are  you  any  surer  of  your  love 
than  I  am  of  mine,  because  you  know  that  when 
you  gave  yourself  to  my  husband,  you  knew  it  was 
not  for  life?" 

There  was  a  keen  and  stinging  significance  in 
the  last  clause  as  Helen  uttered  it  in  her  clear  cool 
tones,  and  Nagy's  face  flushed. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  I  did  not  think  of 
it!  I  just  gave  myself  without  any  thought  ex 
cept  that  I  loved  him,  that  I  wanted  him,  that  I 
wanted  passionately  to  belong  to  him,  and  that  I 
knew  that  he  needed  me." 

"  And,  Mile.  Bosanska,  when  I  gave  myself  to 
him  at  the  altar,  and  pledged  myself  before  God 
and  man  to  cling  to  him  in  life  and  in  death,  tabe 
one  with  him  through  all  that  this  world  might 
bring  to  us,  I  did  it  wholly  and  utterly  because  I 
loved  him,  because  I  wanted  him,  because  I  wanted 
passionately  to  belong  to  him,  because  I  knew 


3o6         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

that  he  needed  me.  And  when  I  gave,  I  gave  my 
self  to  be  one  woman  for  one  man,  never  to  be 
touched  by  another,  to  be  sacred  to  him,  body  and 
soul,  to  be  sealed  to  him  by  a  love  which  I  knew 
was  to  die  only  when  I  die." 

Nagy  stood  quite  motionless.  Her  face  re 
vealed  astonishment.  She  had  not  thought  that 
the  calmly  poised  patrician  American  could  have 
such  feeling. 

*  You  American  women  cannot  understand  such 
a  passion  as  mine,"  she  said  defiantly. 

"  That  is  where  you  are  mistaken,  Mile.  Bo- 
sanska.  You  yourself  are  a  marvelously  delicate 
and  responsive  human  instrument,  but  you  make 
the  error  of  thinking  that  other  instruments  are 
not  responsive,  because  they  do  not  disclose  every 
thing.  But  accept  my  word  for  one  thing,  that 
the  love  which  I  cherish  for  my  husband  contains 
everything  which  makes  love  noble  and  sacred. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  great  love  without 
a  great  passion.  Do  you  understand  me?  " 

*  Yes,  Madame,  I  have  more  respect  for  you 
than  I  had.     But  how  is  it  that  if  you  had  this 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         307 

splendid  passion  you  could  not  awaken  your  hus 
band's  soul?" 

Helen  turned  away.  This,  indeed,  had  been 
the  question  of  her  own  life.  How  had  she 
failed?  She  could  not  answer.  Nagy  laughed 
aloud  and  threw  herself  upon  a  couch,  sitting 
proudly  as  if  she  were  a  queen. 

*  That  was  reserved  for  me,  Madame.  I  found 
what  was  hidden  from  you." 

"How,  how?"  Helen  asked  the  question 
eagerly  before  she  had  time  to  reflect. 

"  That  ought,  perhaps,  to  be  my  secret,  ought  it 
not?"  said  Nagy  maliciously. 

"  I  grant  you  that.  And  I  am  going  even 
further,  Mile.  Bosanska.  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
that  if  the  quickening  of  his  soul  is  to  be  pre 
served  by  the  influence  of  your  love,  I  shall  ac 
cept  a  continuance  of  the  situation  which  began 
when  he  went  to  South  America  with  you." 

Nagy  lowered  her  eyes.  She  was  trying  to  shut 
herself  up  within  her  own  spirit  in  order  to  fathom 
the  precise  significance  of  this  attitude  on  the  part 
of  Helen.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  Nagy 


3o8         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

to  give  Leander  up  to  another  woman  for  his 
own  sake.  Presently  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  rose  from  the  couch. 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  she  said  in  her  customary 
blunt  way  to  Helen,  u  but  you  are  a  great  woman. 
But  it  is  all  too  late.  I  have  told  you  that  I  do 
not  know  where  he  is." 

"  Am  I,  then,  to  understand  that  your  relations 
with  him  are  really  broken  off  for  all  time?" 

"  You  must  have  known  it.  You  saw  him, 
faint  on  the  stage  in  Naples." 

"  Yes,  he  had  an  attack  of  vertigo.  It  was 
nothing." 

Nagy  stared  at  her  as  one  who  could  not  be 
lieve  her  own  senses. 

"  Madame,  your  husband  fainted  because  he  saw 
your  face  in  a  box.  He  repulsed  me  from  that 
instant.  He  refused  to  remain  with  me.  He  fled 
from  Naples.  He  was  as  a  man  awakened  from 
a  dream.  He  was  no  longer  under  my  sway. 
His  spirit,  which  I  had  aroused  from  its  slumber, 
had  grown  too  strong  for  me  to  control.  But  he 
dared  not  look  you  in  the  face.  He  fled  from 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         309 

both  of  us.  I  do  not  know  where  he  has  gone. 
But  of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  and  that  is  that  he  is 
not  happy." 

"  He  repulsed  you?" 

"  He  spurned  me — not  in  hot  anger,  but  in  cool 
thought.  He  even  thanked  me  for  what  I  had 
done  for  him." 

Nagy's  bitterness  in  saying  these  last  words 
was  intense.  Helen  was  lost  in  astonishment. 
Leander  had  broken  with  the  Hungarian.  Then 
the  quarrel  was  because  he  had  looked  into  her  own 
face.  He  was  shamed,  yes,  that  was  it.  But 
that  was  not  enough  to  account  for  everything. 
However  ashamed  he  might  be,  he  would  not  have 
abandoned  Nagy  for  that  reason.  They  would 
have  gone  together.  They  could  always  sing  to 
gether.  There  was  not  an  opera  house  in  all 
Europe  which  would  not  welcome  them.  Helen 
stood  silent  in  profound  reflection.  Then  a  light 
slowly  dawned  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  Nagy, 
who  was  watching  her  through  those  half-closed 
lids.  She  walked  up  to  the  Hungarian  and 
grasped  her  by  the  arm. 


3io         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  He  has  ceased  to  love  you?  "  she  whispered. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  no  other  woman  could 
have  influenced  me  to  tell.  I  will  tell  you,  because 
you  shall  see  that  you  have  been  a  blind  fool,  a 
senseless  creature,  holding  in  the  hollow  of  your 
hand  a  great,  sleeping  heart,  and  not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  it.  Leander  never  loved  me. 
He  told  me  that,  and  then  fled." 

Helen  released  the  gipsy's  arm  and  threw  her 
hands  over  her  own  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  too  late,  I  am  not  too  late.  He 
does  not  love  her." 

She  uncovered  her  face,  and  for  a  moment  the 
two  women  stood  gazing  searchingly  at  one  an 
other.  Then  Helen  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Au  revoir,  Mile.  Bosanska.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  I  am  your  debtor." 

Nagy  ignored  the  hand. 

"  Au  revoir,  Madame,"  she  said.  "  Try  to 
make  more  of  your  opportunities." 

And  Helen  departed,  still  ignorant  of  Leander's 
whereabouts,  but  with  a  new  feeling  of  sweet  hope 
in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

\  MAN  of  tall  stature,  bronzed  by  exposure 
•*•  •*-  to  the  summer  sun,  was  standing  in  deep 
contemplation  on  the  ragged  summit  of  the  Ten- 
gerszem-Csucs.  From  his  eyrie  more  than  eight 
thousand  feet  high  he  gazed  silently  upon  the  stu 
pendous  panorama  spread  below  him.  Little 
shining  lakes,  laughing  streamlets,  noble  pines, 
mighty  rocks,  and  broad  expanses  of  billowing 
grass  made  the  imposing  picture.  The  man  was 
clad  in  a  walking-garb,  for  he  had  tramped  many 
miles  through  the  enchanted  region,  filled  with 
gipsy  lore.  He  had  pondered  on  many  things. 
His  beard  had  grown  straggly,  and  his  eyes  had 
sunk  under  his  cleanly  marked  brows.  Now  he 
had  climbed  up  from  the  shore  of  the  Lake*  of 
Csorba,  refusing  the  help  of  a  guide,  and  was  rest 
ing  while  he  held  commune  with  his  soul. 

A    great    change    had    come    over    him.     The 
smiling,  confident,  uplifted  face  of  Leandro  Baroni 

3" 


312         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

had  taken  on  a  new  expression.  The  proud  chal 
lenge  of  his  eyes  was  gone.  In  its  place  there 
was  a  great  introspectiveness.  He  was  as  one  to 
whom  the  whole  exterior  world  contributed  new 
ideas.  He  himself  was  hardly  conscious  of  the 
extent  of  his  development.  He  nursed  a  secret 
sorrow,  of  which  the  chief  basis  was  self-accusa 
tion.  But  of  the  effect  of  that  sorrow  upon  his 
own  personality  he  was  not  wholly  aware. 

When  he  had  fled  from  Naples  he  had  gone 
into  the  seclusion  of  a  little  town,  Salo  by  name, 
on  the  west  shore  of  the  matchless  Lago  di  Garda. 
There  he  had  stayed  under  the  strange  spell  of  a 
crushing  numbness.  He  had  felt  as  one  stricken 
by  a  heavy  physical  blow.  But  the  enchantment 
of  the  vineyards  and  the  sunny  days  had  slowly 
melted  him.  He  had  turned  his  face  to  the  north. 
A  fussy  little  steamboat,  squat,  puffing,  grimy,  and 
crowded  with  grimy,  squat  men  and  women,  had 
carried  him  to  Riva,  and  thence  a  rocking  and 
bounding  little  railway  train,  stifling  with  its  own 
smoke,  to  Mori.  With  hardly  any  definite  aim, 
he  moved  still  to  the  north,  but  the  wistful  call  of 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         313 

Bozen  halted  him.  And  there  the  eloquence  of 
the  mountains  for  the  first  time  reached  his  soul. 
He  went  up  in  the  inclined  railway  to  Oberbozen. 
He  had  no  clear  purpose  in  going,  but  the  oratory 
of  the  portier  at  the  Kaiserkrone  fairly  drove  him 
to  the  journey.  And  there  he  saw  Rosengarten, 
that  grand  prince  of  Dolomites,  with  its  crown  of 
auburn  flaming  into  rose-red  in  the  rays  of  the 
sinking  sun.  He  sat  on  the  terrace  of  the  little 
hotel  and  gazed  at  the  picture.  He  had  seen 
mountains  often,  but  only  with  the  external  vision. 
They  had  been  pleasant  to  look  at,  effective  vari 
ations  in  rock  and  snow,  but  had  said  nothing  to 
him.  Now  a  strange  influence  worked  upon  him, 
and  he  became  absorbed.  A  waiter  hovered 
around  him,  and  with  a  start  he  realized  that  he 
was  doing  something  unheard  of,  occupying  a 
seat  in  a  restaurant  and  asking  for  nothing.  He 
ordered  coffee,  and  when  it  had  been  placed  before 
him,  he  forgot  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  himself.  "Why 
should  that  massive  shoulder  of  the  earth,  spring 
ing  square  against  the  liquid  sky,  move  me  with 


314         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

an  emotion?  What  is  the  emotion?  Why  have 
I  never  known  it  before?  What  has  happened  to 
me?" 

He  watched  the  colors  turn  dull  on  Rosengarten. 
He  stayed  at  the  little  hotel  to  take  his  dinner, 
and  it  was  on  the  last  train  that  he  went  down  to 
Bozen  again,  and  back  to  the  Kaiserkrone. 

'The  Herr  has  enjoyed  the  visit,  not  true?" 
said  the  portier.  "  It  was  well  that  I  spoke  of  it, 
was  it  not?  " 

"  I  shall  remember  your  excellent  advice  when 
I  am  leaving,"  said  Leander. 

The  next  day  he  started  for  Vienna.  He  had  a 
conviction  that  in  the  Austrian  capital  in  the  sum 
mer  he  could  escape  the  eyes  of  acquaintances. 
He  had  allowed  his  beard  to  grow,  and  he  had 
become  richly  sunburned.  He  dressed  himself 
inconspicuously.  He  took  lodgings  in  an  obscure 
hotel  garni,  and  ate  in  restaurants  not  frequented 
by  the  tourists  or  the  people  of  the  musical  world. 
He  spent  his  time  chiefly  in  the  libraries  and  art 
galleries,  and  endeavored  to  recover  habits  of 
study  laid  aside  since  university  days,  but  it  was 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         315 

not  easy.  The  mind,  accustomed  to  facile  methods, 
balked  at  honest  labor.  But  the  strange  new 
force,  which  was  at  work  within  him,  drove  him 
mercilessly.  He  shut  his  teeth  and  bowed  him 
self  over  his  tasks.  He  was  trying  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  Art.  He 
was  trying  to  find  out  what  were  the  real  purposes 
and  principles  of  it.  He  gathered  to  himself  all 
that  seemed  likely  to  throw  light  upon  it,  from 
Plato  to  Nietzsche.  He  slowly  regained  the 
elasticity  of  his  mind.  Then  he  read  omnivo- 
rously  and  swiftly.  And  slowly  the  scales  fell 
from  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  been  blind  and  deaf,  and  I  had  better 
have  been  also  dumb,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I 
have  thought  myself  great  when  I  was  but  a  child's 
rattle.  I  have  had  fine  titles  for  my  doings.  I 
must  first  of  all  learn  to  swallow  the  words  of 
Zarathustra :  *  Let  thy  virtue  be  too  high  for  the 
familiarity  of  names;  if  thou  hast  to  speak  of  it, 
be  not  afraid  to  stammer.'  Ah,  even  that  is  not 
enough.  First  I  must  try  to  acquire  some  virtue. 
Where?  How?" 


3i6         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  restless  desire 
of  his  spirit  sent  him  once  more  into  the  moun 
tains,  and,  as  if  by  instinct,  he  wandered  into  the 
Hohe  Tatra,  and  to  the  border  of  that  lake  beside 
which  Nagy's  first  lover  had  shot  himself  at  the 
door  of  her  empty  tent.  Here  he  came  finally 
upon  a  revelation  of  the  meaning  of  Nagy  Bo- 
sanska  in  his  life.  Upon  this  he  pondered  again 
and  again,  and  as  he  stood  upon  the  summit  of 
the  Tengerszem-Csucs,  he  was  thinking  of  that 
marvelous  woman. 

"  Oh,  the  wonder  of  it  all,"  he  thought;  "  the 
wonder  of  it!  How  was  it  that  she  and  I  sang 
together  season  after  season,  and  yet  the  firewood 
lay  cold  upon  the  hearth-stones  of  life?  Then 
without  warning  the  torch  was  applied,  and  this 
great  and  glorious  spirit  gave  its  immortal  flame 
to  mine?  Nagy  said  that  Goethe  was  nothing  but 
a  poet  when  he  wrote  that  the  woman  soul  lead- 
eth  us  upward  and  on,  but  he  spoke  eternal  truth. 
And  now  I  know  that  without  her,  she  whom  most 
of  the  silly  creatures  of  a  blind  world  would  call 
the  incarnation  of  Kipling's  Vampire,  I  never 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         317 

could  know  and  never  could  understand.  It  was 
Nagy  who  boasted  that  she  would  awaken  my 
soul.  I  was  a  blind  man,  and  suddenly  the  sun 
fell  upon  my  sight.  And  I  saw  a  vision.  I  saw 
the  face  of  the  one  woman.  It  smote  me  to  the 
earth.  It  was  Nagy  who  had  led  me  to  the  height 
from  which*  I  could  see.  I  have  lived  in  a  dream. 
Helen,  my  wife,  was  right  when  she  told  me  that  I 
was  possessed  of  self.  And  the  furnace  fires  of 
an  earthly  passion  have  burned  away  this  dross 
from  my  soul.  God  forgive  me;  I  am  as  a  thistle 
blown  by  the  wind.  But  the  future  shall  be  dif 
ferent." 

And  he  went  down  to  Csorba's  shore  again,  and 
there  he  met  Karl  Zichy.  It  was  the  next  after 
noon,  and  Leander  was  musing  in  the  depths  of 
the  woods.  Without  thought  he  began  to  sing,  at 
first  softly,  and  then  more  loudly.  He  sang  from 
memory  and  imperfectly  "  Wie  bist  du  meine 
Konigin."  He  seated  himself  upon  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree,  and  fell  again  into  thought.  He  did 
not  hear  a  light  footstep  near  him,  and  looked  up 
in  surprise  when  a  low  voice  addressed  him. 


3i8         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  Pardon  me,  but  was  it  not  you  I  heard  sing 
ing?" 

Leander  saw  before  him  a  short  spare  old  man 
with  a  seamed  face,  and  deep,  searching  eyes,  set 
under  a  broad  high  forehead.  It  was  a  face 
which  indicated  power  and  thought.  Leander  was 
less  ready  to  repulse  his  fellow  men  than  he  had 
been.  He  answered  gently,  but  with  some  re 
serve: 

'You  are  right;  I  did  venture  to  sing.  I 
thought  I  should  not  disturb  any  one  here." 

"  I  should  not  say  that  I  was  disturbed,  but 
rather  interested.  You  were  singing  Brahms,  but 
— pardon  me — not  quite  correctly." 

*  You  are  right,"  responded  Leander  with  a 
smile.  "  I  have  never  studied  the  song.  I  was 
only  trying  to  recall  it  from  memory.  I  once 
heard  a  woman  sing  it  marvelously." 

"  I  have  never  heard  any  lieder  singer  deliver 
it  marvelously." 

'  This  was  not  a  lieder  singer,  and  she  would 
not  sing  it  in  public.  She  sang  Brahms  only  in 
private.  She  was  an  opera  singer." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         319 

"  There  have  been  two  great  opera  singers  who 
could  also  sing  Brahms,"  said  the  little  old  man; 
"  Sembrich  and  Lehmann." 

"  I  do  not  mean  either.  I  speak  of  Nagy  Bo- 
sanska,  the  Hungarian  soprano." 

"  You  know  our  Nagy  Bosanska?  "  said  the  old 
man.  His  glance  kindled  and  his  head  was 
proudly  lifted. 

"  I  have  heard  her  sing  '  Wie  bist  du  meine 
Konigin.'  " 

"  Pardon  me.  You  interest  me  much.  Will 
you  allow  me  an  old  man's  privilege?  I  am 
called  Karl  Zichy.  I  was  a  protege  of  our  great 
Hungarian  conductor,  Seidl.  I  have  lived  much 
in  the  atmosphere  of  Bayreuth,  where  the  name 
of  Brahms  is  not  spoken.  But  I  have  also  lived 
much  in  Vienna.  I  am  that  strange  thing,  a  musi 
cian  whose  two  gods  are  Wagner  and  Brahms. 
Possibly  you  will  bear  with  me  further  if  I>say 
to  you  that  you  have  a  wonderful  voice,  and  that 
you  sang  like  a  singer." 

"  I  am  a  singer,"  said  Leander  slowly  and 
heavily;  "just  that  and  nothing  more." 


320         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"Pardon  me  yet  once  again;  but  if  you  know 
this,  you  are  already  something  more." 

"  I  stand  on  the  borders  of  knowledge,  that  is 
all." 

Leander  relapsed  into  silence,  and  seemed  to 
have  lost  himself  again  in  his  musing.  But  pres 
ently  he  looked  up  and  saw  that  Zichy  was  still 
standing  there,  regarding  him  closely. 

*  You  have  said  that  you  grew  up  in  the  atmos 
phere  of  Bayreuth,"  said  Leander.     "  Would  you, 
be  willing  to  discuss  some  Wagnerian  subjects  with 
me?" 

'  Willingly,  since  you  are  interested  in  them." 

They  dined  together  that  evening,  and  in  the 
reflective  period  of  the  after-dinner  cigar  Le 
ander  said: 

"  Mr.  Zichy,  I  am  hiding  here  under  my  real 
name,  Lee  Barrett.  It  may  be,  however,  that 
you  will  not  know  my  stage  name.  It  is  Leandro 
Baroni." 

Zichy  smiled,  and,  leaning  forward,  studied 
the  tenor's  face  closely. 

"  I  have  heard  you  sing  twice,  Mr.  Barrett," 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         321 

said  he;  "  but  you  do  not  resemble  the  Romeo  or 
the  Don  Jose  whom  I  saw." 

"  I  ask  you  now,"  continued  Leander,  "  whether 
your  engagements  are  pressing  for  the  present." 

"  I  have  none  at  all." 

'  Then  will  you  take  me  as  a  pupil?  I  wish  to 
study  the  great  dramas  and  the  great  German 
songs.  I  find  in  you  the  mind  which  can  lead 


mine." 


Zichy  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully  for  several 
seconds. 

"  It  will  be  a  great  opportunity,"  he  said  softly. 
"  Mr.  Barrett,  I  will  enter  into  a  contract  with 
you  gladly.  I  believe  that  you  can  become  very 
great." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  great  any  more,"  said 
Leander,  shaking  his  head;  "  I  have  suffered  too 
much  of  that  greatness.  I  desire  now  to  be  an 
artist.  I  have  come  to  see  that  the  creator  is  he 
who  is  great,  not  the  interpreter.  But  I  have 
learned  that  I  have  a  solemn  duty  to  perform,  and 
that  this  voice  was  given  to  me  for  the  purpose 
of  performing  it.  I  have  been  unfaithful  to  my 


322         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

trust,  Mr.  Zichy.  But  it  is  not  too  late.  And  a 
woman  has  shown  me  the  way  to  the  truth.  She 
offered  me  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and 
I  did  eat." 

Zichy  made  no  comment  on  this  speech.  He 
was  too  old  and  too  wise  to  ask  for  confidences. 
He  was  well  aware  that  in  good  time  he  would 
learn  the  history  of  Leander's  spiritual  life.  So 
on  the  next  day  the  two  men  started  for  Buda- 
Pesth,  where  they  were  to  pass  the  winter  in  se 
clusion  and  study.  Day  by  day  Leander's  respect 
for  the  aged  Hungarian  grew.  Zichy  was  not 
merely  a  musician,  but  a  philosopher  and  a 
scholar.  He  opened  up  to  Leander  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  Wagnerian  drama.  Before  the 
winter  had  passed  the  tenor  had  read  the  great 
epics  upon  which  Wagner  built,  and  saturated 
himself  with  their  poetic  spirit.  But  his  most  rapt 
hours  were  those  in  which  Zichy  labored  with 
him  over  the  masterpieces  of  Schubert,  Brahms, 
and  the  other  great  song  writers.  He  felt  that 
in  them  he  would  find  basic  truth.  One  day  in 
January,  while  they  were  sitting  by  the  piano, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         323 

Leander  suddenly  bowed  his  head  as  though 
ashamed  to  look  squarely  at  Zichy,  and  said: 

"  I  used  to  try  to  sing  Lohengrin.'* 

Zichy  made  no  answer,  but  waited  for  Leander 
to  go  on. 

"  And  I  was  applauded  enthusiastically  for  my 
delivery  of  the  narrative  in  the  last  scene.  Zichy, 
I  think  if  one  sang  that  rightly  there  would  be  no 
applause,  only  a  great  silence,  as  there  is  after  the 
first  act  of  *  Parsifal.'  " 

"  Perhaps,  my  dear  Baroni,  you  expect  too 
much  of  a  facile  public.  But  one,  at  any  rate, 
should  try  to  sing  it  that  way." 

'  When  I  sang  it  I  was  always  thinking  of  my 
own  success.  Zichy,  a  woman  told  me  that  I  was 
the  slave  of  my  ego,  and  I  spurned  her  for  it. 
But  every  day,  every  hour  now  I  see  more  clearly 
that  she  was  right  in  everything  she  told  me,  and 
that  I  was  a  blind  fool,  with  my  face  against  the 
mirror  of  my  own  conceit." 

*  This  woman  of  whom  you  have  spoken  to  me 
was  a  great  one.  How  is  it  that  you  left  her?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  two  women.     One 


324         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

was  my  wife.  The  other  was  a  glorious  artist, 
a  breathing  incarnation  of  passion  and  self-forget- 
fulness,  a  flame  of  temperament,  a  pealing  voice 
of  universal  expression." 

"  And  it  was,  of  course,  this  second  woman  who 
gave  you  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

"  Which  the  other  woman  had  offered  me  also, 
but  from  her  I  would  not  take  it,  because  she  was 
too  great  for  me  to  understand.  The  artist  taught 
me  to  comprehend,  and  now  I  know  that  I  shall 
never  reach  even  the  feet  of  my  wife." 

Leander  arose  and  tramped  restlessly  up  and 
down  the  room,  while  Zichy  sat  by  the  piano  and 
watched  him.  But  presently  an  idea  came  to  the 
aged  musician,  and  he  began  to  play  softly  the 
music  prefatory  to  the  narrative  of  Lohengrin. 
Leander  stopped  short  in  his  walk,  and  at  the 
proper  instant  began  to  sing  softly: 

'"In  fernem  Land,  unnahbar  euren  Schritten, 
Liegt  eine  Burg,  die  Monsalvat  genannt."1 

As  he  continued  he  sang  with  more  tone,  but 
always  with  a  feeling  of  reverence,  of  aloofness 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         325 

from  his  surroundings.  When  he  came  to  the 
end,  Zichy  dropped  his  hands  from  the  piano  and 
said: 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  not  the  way  you  used  to 
sing  it." 

"  I  do  not  think  so;  I  hope  not;  I  am  not  cer 
tain  of  myself." 

;'  We  shall  study  it,  and  you  shall  learn  to  sing 
it  always  that  way,"  said  Zichy,  and  then  Le- 
ander  knew  that  he  had  at  last  found  the  meaning 
of  the  scene.  And  presently  Zichy  spoke  again: 

"  I  am  sorry  that  your  voice  is  a  little  too  high 
for  Tannhauser." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Leander;  "I  do  not  wish 
to  sing  the  part.  I  am  Tannhauser." 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June  that  the  two 
men  left  Buda-Pesth  and  traveled  westward. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

F I  ^HERE  was  nothing  new  to  Leander  in 
•*•  Munich,  yet  everything  was  strange.  He 
had  walked  through  both  Pinakotheks  and  the 
Glyptothek,  and  had  loitered  in  the  Schalk  gal 
lery  in  the  unregenerate  days  when  his  thought 
was  centered  upon  his  own  voice,  but  now,  in  the 
company  of  Zichy,  he  retrod  the  old  paths,  and  at 
every  step  made  discoveries.  They  spent  two 
weeks  in  the  Bavarian  capital,  and  in  that  time 
Leander  continued  to  expand.  Not  only  did  his 
intellect  stretch  itself  and  gather  strength,  but  his 
heart  continued  to  open  and  make  room  for  the 
human  side  of  life.  And  as  it  did  so,  he  under 
stood  better  and  better  the  measureless  breadth 
and  depth  of  the  hearts  of  two  women.  After 
the  two  weeks  in  Munich  he  and  Zichy  went  to 
Interlaken  and  saturated  themselves  with  the  early 
summer  splendors  of  the  Jungfrau.  Leander  had 

removed  his  beard  and  restored  himself  as  nearly 

326 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         327 

as  possible  to  his  former  appearance.  But  still  he 
escaped  meeting  acquaintances.  And  it  was  in  In- 
terlaken  that  a  letter  from  his  Paris  agent  found 
him. 

"  Zichy,"  he  said;  "  I  shall  go  back." 

"To  New  York?" 

'  Yes,  the  Metropolitan  is  calling  me  still,  and 
this  time  I  shall  not  refuse.  You  will  go  with 
me?" 

'  Yes,  if  you  desire  it.  I  have  never  been  in 
America." 

"  I  desire  it,  and  I  need  you.  We  have  still 
much  to  study  together." 

In  mid- July  they  were  in  Zermatt.  And  here 
Leander  was  seized  with  a  great  hunger  to  walk  to 
the  Gornergrat. 

u  My  dear  friend,  this  is  not  for  me,"  said 
Zichy  with  a  smile.  "  You  will  give  me  leave  to 
go  in  the  train." 

"  We  shall  meet  at  the  Riffelalp,"  said  Lean 
der;  "  I  shall  abandon  the  walk  there  and  ride 
with  you." 

For  once  there  was  no  curtain  of  jealous  mist 


328         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

to  shut  the  glories  of  the  mountains  from  the  sight 
of  men.  Leander  set  off  early  in  the  morning  in 
a  magnificent  blaze  of  sheer  sunshine.  A  brilliant 
pyramid  of  ivory,  the  frowning  Matterhorn,  bold 
est  and  strongest  of  peaks,  stood  out  a  dazzling 
spire  against  a  sapphire  sky  and  the  Riffelalp 
Hotel  hung  clear  and  close  in  the  transparent  air 
on  the  heights  above  the  village.  Leander  strode 
away,  filled  with  the  joy  of  living.  The  spiritual 
depression  which  had  hung  upon  him  for  so  long 
a  time  had  left  him.  In  that  pure  and  holy  atmos 
phere  the  mean  dross  of  life  shrank  away.  He 
sang  in  his  soul  as  he  climbed  the  slopes  to  the 
Riffelalp,  which  he  reached  before  the  middle  of 
the  day.  The  train  followed  close  upon  his  heels, 
and  Zichy  dismounted.  Then,  when  he  had  spied 
Leander,  they  secured  seats  together,  and  went 
onward  to  the  Gornergrat.  They  stood  in  the 
very  eyrie  of  peak  and  glacier.  And  as  they  stood, 
another  man  moved  along  the  levels  just  behind 
them.  They  took  no  notice  of  him,  for  tourists 
were  always  plenty  at  the  Gornergrat. 

But  this  man  saw  Leander  and  started.     It  was 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         329 

Philip  Studley,  who  had  arrived  in  Zermatt  the 
previous  night,  and  had  hastened  to  the  Gorner- 
grat  with  the  first  morrow.  He  was  astonished 
to  see  Leander,  and  still  more  so  when  he  noted 
the  indescribable,  but  unmistakable  alteration  in 
the  expression  of  his  face.  He  hesitated,  debat 
ing  whether  he  should  advance  and  make  his 
presence  known.  He  decided  that  it  would  be 
wiser  not  to  do  so.  He  felt  that,  after  all,  he 
had  no  right  to  thrust  himself  upon  the  tenor's 
privacy.  But  he  could  not  help  watching  the 
singer,  and  the  conviction  grew  upon  him  that  a 
deep  change  of  some  sort  had  taken  place.  He 
saw  the  venerable  man  with  Leander  speak  to  him, 
and  he  observed  that  the  singer  bent  his  head  and 
listened  with  a  deeply  thoughtful  air.  Then  he 
saw  Leander  catch  up  the  thread  of  the  conversa 
tion  and  stretch  out  his  arm  in  a  noble  and  com 
manding  gesture.  It  was  evident  that  the  tenbr 
spoke  of  the  majestic  scene  upon  which  he  and 
his  companion  were  gazing,  and  it  was  equally 
plain  that  the  younger  man's  eloquence  was  not 
without  its  weight  for  the  older  one.  At  the  very 


330         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

moment,  when  Philip  was  most  absorbed  in  watch 
ing  the  two,  Leander  was  quoting  Zichy: 

"'Spirit  of  Nature,  here! 

In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple.'" 

"  Whose  lines  are  those?  "  asked  the  old  Hun 
garian. 

"  An  English  poet's,  Shelley  by  name.  A  Hun 
garian  gipsy  taught  me  to  read  him." 

And  Zichy  knew  that  he  was  thinking  again  of 
Nagy  Bosanska.  Philip  watched  the  two  till  they 
were  ready  to  descend  again  to  Zermatt.  He  kept 
himself  out  of  their  range  of  observation,  and  en 
tered  the  train  without  being  seen  by  them.  He 
permitted  them  to  leave  the  terminus  in  advance 
of  himself,  and  took  his  way  to  his  hotel  without 
being  discovered.  In  the  evening  he  sat  in  his 
room,  reflecting  on  the  change  which  he  had  noted 
in  the  tenor.  He  attributed  it  to  the  sobering  ef 
fect  of  experience,  but  inevitably  failed  to  meas 
ure  it  at  its  true  value.  While  he  was  thus  en- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         331 

gaged  in  thought,  there  came  to  him  the  voice  of 
a  man  singing  softly,  and  he  recognized  the  rich 
mezza  voce  of  Baroni.  He  could  not  identify 
the  song,  because  he  could  not  hear  enough  of  it. 
But  he  was  certain  that  the  singer  was  not  far 
away.  His  curiosity  was  sufficient  to  cause  him 
to  try  to  hear  more.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
listened  a  moment,  endeavoring  to  determine  the 
direction  from  ^vhich  the  tones  came.  He  found 
that  the  tenor  and  his  companion  were  sitting  on 
a  small  balcony  just  below  his  window.  He  leaned 
out,  feeling  that,  even  if  that  singular  sense  which 
detects  the  propinquity  of  another  person,  moved 
either  of  them  to  look  up,  he  would  not  be  recog 
nized  in  the  dim  light.  The  singing  had  now 
ceased,  and  the  men  were  conversing  in  low  tones. 
Presently  Baroni's  companion  raised  his  voice 
enough  to  permit  Philip  to  hear  a  sentence. 

"  You  ought  to  give  recitals.  Your  interpreta 
tions  of  Brahms  should  not  be  lost  to  the  world." 

"  There  is  one  who  can  interpret  him  far  better 
than  I,"  replied  the  tenor. 

And  then  their  voices  sank  again,  so  that  Philip 


332         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

could  not  distinguish  their  words.  But  he  under 
stood  immediately  that  Leander  spoke  of  Nagy. 
And  he  smiled  a  rather  grim  smile  as  he  recalled 
his  own  endeavor  to  impress  upon  her  the  im 
portance  of  her  lieder  singing.  A  few  moments 
passed  in  silence,  and  then  Leander  began  again 
to  sing  softly.  The  music  drifted  upward  to 
Philip's  ears,  and  his  memory  easily  supplied  the 
words,  which  were  dear  to  him : 

"<Wie  bist  du  meine  Konigin, 
Durch  sanfte  Giite  wonnevoll! 
Du  lach'le  nur — Lenzdufte  weh'n 
Durch  mein  Gemtite  wonnevoll.'" 

His  memory  brought  back  to  him  the  deep 
passion  of  Nagy's  delivery,  and  he  found  him 
self  noting  with  amazement  in  the  tenor's  sup 
pressed  delivery  a  similar  intensity,  a  wealth  of 
color  and  nuance,  which  he  had  never  heard  in 
Leander's  singing  on  the  stage.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"  A  marvelous  woman,  that  gipsy  soprano,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  She  has  found  the  gateway 
to  his  musical  soul  and  opened  it.  What  if,  in 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         333 

doing  so,  she  has  changed  the  whole  man?  My 
dear  Helen !  It  may  be  that  he  will  yet  come  to 
see  her  true  worth." 

The  next  morning  he  learned  that  Leander 
and  his  companion  had  gone  down  to  Visp  on  their 
way  to  the  West.  And  later  in  the  same  day  he 
read  in  a  London  newspaper  in  the  hotel  reading- 
room  that  the  tenor  had  accepted  a  new  con 
tract  with  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

t"  I  "A  HE  Italian  restaurant  was  reeking  with  its 
accustomed  collection  of  odors.  The  wait 
ers  were  sweating  and  the  eaters  were  coiling 
spaghetti  around  their  forks  with  the  callous  in 
difference  of  long  habit.  There  was  the  familiar 
intermingling  of  persons  belonging  to  two  worlds 
—the  artistic  and  the  inartistic.  There  were  long 
haired  painters  with  broad,  limp  neckties  and  ex 
ceedingly  loose  coats.  There  were  lean  and  pallid 
magazine  specialists,  whose  eager  faces  seemed  to 
be  peering  into  every  corner  in  search  of  some 
thing  to  expose.  But  the  most  conspicuous  per 
sons  were  the  little  company  of  opera  singers,  of 
whom  Madeleine  Piroux  and  Ponitzky  were  the 
stars,  while  Tremontini  and  La  Feramordi,  sup 
ported  by  the  judicious  Abadista,  believed  that 
they  were  the  real  luminaries. 

"  Clever  of  our  able  impresario  to  hold  off  the 

334 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         335 

reappearance  of  Baroni  till  Wednesday  night,  was 
it  not?"  remarked  Tremontini. 

"  It  seems  so,"  said  Ponitzky.  "  Every  one 
wishes  to  hear  him  again,  but,  of  course,  the  Mon 
day  night  houses  are  all  sold  out  anyhow." 

"  But,"  interposed  Madeleine,  "  that  is  not  the 
reason  at  all." 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Feramordi  sarcastically, 
"  then  you  tell  it  to  us." 

"  I  am  going  to,"  responded  the  adorable 
French  soprano  calmly;  "  it  seems  that  he  wished 
Baroni  to  sing  Lohengrin  on  the  opening  night, 
but  that  Baroni  was  bent  on  making  his  reappear 
ance  in  a  new  role,  Tristan." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course  he  had  to  give  him  his 
way,"  said  Ponitzky. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tremontini,  "  but  what  on  earth 
has  possessed  Baroni  to  take  up  German  roles? 
Is  his  voice  failing,  do  you  suppose?  " 

"  Why,  he  always  sang  Lohengrin  and  Wal- 
ther,"  said  Abadista. 

"  Yes,  he  sang  them  in  all  three  languages,  but 
they  are  sung  by  every  tenor  in  these  days.  But 


336         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

when  you  come  to  Tristan  and  the  Siegfrieds,  it 
is  a  somewhat  different  matter,  isn't  it?"  said 
Tremontini.  *  You  know  they  tried  once  to  get 
me  to  study  that  diabolical  Alberich,  but  I  drew 
the  line  at  that.  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  was 
quite  enough  for  me." 

"  And  where  the  deuce  was  Baroni  all  the  time, 
anyhow?  "  asked  Ponitzky. 

'  Well,  no  one  seems  to  know.  I  have  heard 
that  he  was  in  the  Far  East,"  said  Abadista,  who 
prided  himself  on  knowing  everything;  "  but  there 
is  no  telling.  Only  one  thing  is  certain,  and  that 
is  that  he  disappeared  from  the  surface  of  Europe 
and  did  not  sing  for  more  than  a  year." 

"  It  was  after  his  break  with  our  divine  Nagy, 
was  it  not?"  asked  Feramordi.  "Really,  she 
must  have  had  a  ruinous  effect  upon  him." 

"  I  wonder,"  murmured  Madeleine. 

"  Have  you  been  at  any  '  Tristan  '  rehearsals?  " 
inquired  Ponitzky  of  Abadista. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered;  "but  Baroni  does  not 
sing.  He  merely  mumbles.  There  seems  to  be  a 
good  understanding  between  him  and  Kraft." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         337 

"Well,"  declared  Feramordi,  "the  whole 
thing  is  impossible.  Baroni  has  the  most  beau 
tiful  tenor  voice  in  the  world,  that  is  granted,  and 
he  has  a  perfect  technique;  but  he  has  no  soul 
and  no  intelligence.  His  Faust  and  Romeo  were 
always  pretty,  but  nothing  else,  and  his  Don  Jose 
was  ridiculous.  Such  a  man  cannot  even  suspect 
what  is  in  Tristan." 

"  I  wonder,"  murmured  Madeleine  again. 

The  astonishment  of  the  opera  singers  over  the 
announcement  that  Baroni  would  make  his  re 
appearance  as  Tristan  was  truly  professional.  It 
had  its  compensations,  based  upon  a  sweet  and 
secret  trust  that  all  would  be  ill.  Perhaps  only 
Madeleine  cherished  a  belief  in  the  tenor.  The 
others  patiently  and  serenely  awaited  the  hour  of 
his  downfall.  They  knew  well  that,  as  La  Fera 
mordi  had  said,  Baroni's  voice  and  exquisite  tonal 
technique  would  carry  him  far,  but  they  also  knew 
that  these  would  not  carry  him  through  the  third 
act  of  the  great  Wagnerian  love  drama.  He 
might  manage  to  delude  an  audience  in  the  first 
two;  but  in  the  third  there  could  be  no  deception. 


338          THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

But  what  the  opera  singers  felt  in  regard  to  the 
new  departure  was  a  trifle  compared  to  what  others 
felt.  The  opera-going  public  was  deeply  annoyed. 
For  some  years  it  had  cherished  the  belief  that 
here,  at  least,  was  one  singer  who  would  not  be 
afflicted  with  the  Wagner  insanity,  who  would  con 
tinue  to  make  frequent  the  presentation  of 
"  Faust,"  "  Romeo  et  Juliette,"  "  Carmen,"  and 
"  Ai'da."  Yet  now,  after  having  robbed  them  of 
his  presence  for  two  years,  he  returned  with  the 
announcement  that  he,  too,  was  going  to  become 
a  "  Wagnerian  interpreter."  It  was  almost  too 
much  to  bear.  But  still  one  really  had  to  hear 
him,  and,  of  course,  it  would  be  interesting  to  see 
him  in  a  new  costume,  and  with  a  beard — yes,  peo 
ple  said  that  he  would  wear  a  beard  in  Tristan. 
Fancy  Baroni  trying  to  look  like  a  sort  of  wild 
Norseman.  Wasn't  Tristan  a  Norseman?  Any 
how,  he  sailed  in  a  ship  such  as  Norsemen  used. 

Helen,  the  wife,  sat  at  home  and  pondered. 
She  was  troubled  to  her  heart's  core.  She  had 
believed  that  Leander's  return  to  New  York  meant 
that  he  was  returning  to  her;  but  as  yet  he  had 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         339 

made  no  sign.  The  publication  of  the  news  that 
he  was  to  reappear  as  Tristan  had  moved  her. 
She  felt  that  it  had  a  significance.  She  hazarded 
the  guess  that  it  was  Leander's  purpose  to  disclose 
in  the  beginning  of  his  renewed  labors  at  the 
Metropolitan  that  he  had  put  away  childish  things, 
that  he  had  found  something  more  in  his  art  than 
the  glorification  of  Self.  She  dared  even  to  think 
that,  with  the  subjugation  of  his  egotism  to  his 
art  would  come  a  renewal  of  his  feeling  for  her, 
or,  rather,  that  he  might  at  any  rate  be  willing 
to  face  duty.  And  so  she  sat  and  waited  and 
waited,  but  nothing  happened.  Leander  did  not 
communicate  with  her  directly  or  indirectly.  But 
she  was  determined  to  be  present  at  the  perform 
ance  of  "  Tristan  und  Isolde. " 

At  the  last  rehearsal  of  the  drama,  Mrs.  Har- 
ley  Manners  was  among  those  present.  She 
bustled  from  seat  to  seat  in  her  customary  brislc 
style,  prattling  vivaciously  and  saying  all  sorts  of 
priceless  nothings.  It  was  not  till  after  the  first 
act,  however,  that  she  spied  Philip  Studley,  who 
was  rising  from  his  seat  to  go  out. 


340         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

"  What!  "  she  said;  "  going  away  so  soon?  " 
'  Yes,"  he  answered;  "  I  thought  that,  perhaps, 
I  might  get  a  line  on  the  performance  from  this 
rehearsal,  so  that  I  could  get  something  up  in  ad 
vance,  but  Mr.  Baroni  is  merely  walking  through 
the  part,  and  not  giving  any  clew  to  his  impersona 
tion." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  that?  "  she  said  suddenly, 
almost  breathless  with  a  new  idea;  "I  thought 
that  he  was  doing  it  just  as  he  intends  to  on 
Wednesday  evening." 

"  No,  I  am  positive  that  it  will  not  be  any 
thing  of  this  sort.  Mr.  Baroni  has  not  been  idle 
in  the  two  years  he  has  been  away,  especially  the 
last  year.  He  has  been  studying.  I  happen  to 
know  that.  You  will  see  that  he  has  ideas." 

"  You  amaze  me,"  declared  Mrs.  Harley  Man 
ners.  "  I  know  that  he  sings  divinely,  but  I  sup 
posed  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  sing  this 
part.  Indeed,  only  one  man  has  ever  sung  it,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Philip,  smiling;  "  but  I 
think  we  are  going  to  hear  the  second." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         341 

"  I  am  delighted.  Of  course,  I  am  going  to 
be  here.  You  know,  I  never  miss  a  performance 
of  '  Tristan  und  Isolde,'  and  with  Mme.  Olbaum 
as  Isolde  and  Mme.  Massliebchen  as  Brangane, 
not  to  speak  of  Herr  Zollecoffer  as  Kurvenal,  it 
is  sure  to  be  an  interesting  evening,  even  if  Baroni 
is  too — well,  too  nice." 

Nagy  Bosanska  went  to  no  rehearsals.  She  had 
nodded  her  beautiful  head  and  smiled  out  of  her 
sea-green  eyes,  when  she  read  that  Baroni  would 
sing  Tristan.  She  sat  in  the  soft  light  of  her 
apartment  and  communed  with  herself. 

"  And  so  the  prophecy  of  Nagy  Bosanska,  the 
gipsy,  is  brought  to  its  fulfilment  by  Nagy  Bo 
sanska,  the  woman." 

She  leaned  back  and  laughed  a  little,  and  then 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  splendid  Baroni !  He  was  such  a  child 
when  I  took  him  away  from  his  fool  of  a  wife. 
And  now  he  is  a  man,  and  he  and  I  could  rule  the 
world  together,  but  I  have  lost  my  power.  And 
he  will  go  back  to  the  good  domestic  love,  and  be 
an  honest  breadwinner  for  his  family.  Ah,  but  I 


342         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

talk  nonsense.  I  know  that  I  lie.  I  lie  to  salve 
my  own  wound.  Baroni  will  be  great.  The 
gipsy  has  said  it,  and  it  is  true." 

Nagy  had  not  come  through  it  all  unscathed. 
Fierce  and  fiery  as  her  nature  was,  she  was,  in 
spite  of  herself,  a  woman.  She  had  been  sent  into 
the  world  a  born  polygamist,  and  she  had  learned 
to  look  that  hard  fact  squarely  in  the  eyes.  But 
the  inspection  was  not  altogether  pleasing  to  her. 
She  knew  that  the  waning  and  leaping  of  the 
immortal  flame  within  her,  waning  and  leaping 
even  as  the  flame  on  Hunding's  hearth-stone,  were 
more  splendid  than  the  soft  glow  of  the  farthing 
rushlight  which  guided  so  many  excellent  women 
from  the  altar  to  the  grave ;  but,  none  the  less,  she 
had  reached  the  period  when  she  felt  that  life's 
wanderlust  should  be  over.  She  would  have  liked 
to  settle  down  to  a  somewhat  wayward  imitation 
of  domestic  existence,  a  finale  of  life  composed  in 
an  adagio,  but  appassionato.  Leander  might  have 
been  the  companion  of  this  happy  state.  But  here 
for  once  her  insight  had  failed  her. 

She  had  dreamed  that  she  would  mould  him  to 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         343 

her  own  ends,  and  he  had  risen  to  her  level  only 
to  obtain  a  wider  and  keener  view  of  his  own  per 
sonality.  She  had  taught  him  her  runes,  even  as 
Brunnhilde  taught  Siegfried,  and  the  result  was 
that  he  left  her.  She  had  lost  track  of  him  in 
the  year  following  their  separation.  If  she  had 
known  that  he  had  visited  the  Lake  of  Csorba  and 
digested  there  the  spiritual  food  which  she  had 
given  him,  she  would  have  understood  still  better 
the  impossibility  of  any  future  between  them.  For 
Nagy  had  the  wisdom  of  a  serpent,  and  she  would 
have  interpreted  rightly  that  pilgrimage  of  Lean- 
der  to  the  spot  where  her  own  strange  life  had 
begun.  And  if  she  had  known  all  that,  she  would 
have  interpreted  much  more  accurately  the  new  de 
parture  in  his  public  career.  She  had  prophesied 
that  he  would  become  great;  but  she  did  not  know 
how  much  of  humility  he  had  acquired,  how  much 
of  the  simple  faith  of  intellectual  honesty. 

As  for  Leander  himself,  he  attended  the  neces 
sary  rehearsals  and  remained  away  from  the 
opera  house  as  much  as  possible.  He  went  for 
long  walks,  and  at  other  times  buried  himself  in 


344         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

study.  Part  of  each  day  was  spent  at  the  piano 
with  Zichy  by  his  side.  Sometimes  they  pored 
over  passages  in  the  score,  striving  to  correlate 
them  correctly  with  the  drama  as  a  whole,  and 
again  they  read  page  after  page  in  the  prose  writ 
ings  of  the  master.  All  of  this  they  had  done 
over  and  over  again  in  Europe,  but  there  was 
scarcely  a  day  in  which  Leander  did  not  find  more 
intimate  revelations  of  the  profound  meaning  of 
Wagner.  And  to  convey  that  to  his  audience  was 
his  whole  aim. 

At  any  rate,  he  thought  it  was.  Deep  down  in 
his  heart  there  was  an  undefined  purpose,  which 
he  would  not  have  dared  to  fashion  into  words. 
He  did  not  venture  even  to  confront  it,  but  rather 
strove  to  deceive  himself  as  to  its  very  existence. 
But  every  night  when  he  was  alone  in  his  room, 
before  going  to  bed  he  gazed  long  and  intently 
at  a  small  portrait  of  a  woman  which  he  carried 
in  his  pocket  during  the  day.  And,  as  he  gazed, 
a  great  tenderness  and  worship  would  come  into 
his  eyes,  and  sometimes  even  a  moisture. 

When  the  eventful  Wednesday  evening  arrived 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         345 

the  opera  house  was  packed.  Even  the  standing 
room  behind  the  orchestra  rail  was  crowded.  It 
was  a  curious  assemblage,  but  perfectly  character 
istic.  Two-thirds  of  the  people  in  the  house  were 
there  to  hear  Baroni  in  a  new  role.  Even  the  in 
disputable  fact  that  he  was  going  to  sing  in  one  of 
those  long,  dreary  Wagner  music  dramas,  in  which 
he  would  not  be  able  to  lean  over  the  footlights 
and  hurl  a  high  B  flat  at  the  gallery,  even  that  tre 
mendous  and  dispiriting  fact  did  not  suffice  to  keep 
the  old  Baroni  enthusiasts  at  home.  The  other 
third  of  the  audience  was  composed  of  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  and  women,  among  whom 
was  a  fair  sprinkling  of  real  lovers  of  Wagner's 
immortal  hymn  of  love. 

Helen  sat  in  the  orchestra  circle  on  the  left, 
and  not  far  from  the  stage.  She  had  chosen  a 
seat  where  she  herself  would  be  inconspicuous,  but 
from  which  she  could  watch  Leander's  faee. 
While  the  orchestra  was  playing  the  tumultuous 
prelude,  she  began  to  wish  that  she  had  not  come. 
Tremors,  first  hot  and  then  cold,  pursued  one  an 
other  through  her  limbs.  At  moments  she  felt 


346         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

faint,  and  her  head  swam.  She  began  to  realize 
all  that  this  new  departure  might  mean  in  its 
effect  on  Baroni's  future  success,  and  she  was  seized 
with  a  great  fear.  She  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
lap  so  tightly  that  it  pained  her.  She  shut  her 
teeth  with  grim  determination.  She  must,  she 
must  know  what  this  thing  meant.  Why  had  Le- 
ander  essayed  Tristan?  And  that  was  what  she 
had  to  know. 

The  curtain  rose,  and  the  song  of  the  sailor 
floated  down  from  aloft.  Helen  did  not  even 
hear  it.  All  her  senses  were  crowded  into  a  fierce 
eagerness  for  the  first  sight  of'  Leander.  She 
leaned  forward  in  her  seat,  waiting  for  the  cry  of 
Isolde  for  air,  when  Brangane  would  draw  back 
the  curtains  of  the  tent  and  disclose  the  stern 
of  the  ship.  And  as  she  leaned  forward  a  woman 
sitting  in  an  upper  box  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house  also  leaned  forward  and  saw  her.  It  was 
Nagy.  And  the  bold  gipsy,  too,  was  pale  and 
eager,  and  she,  too,  was  holding  herself  in  a 
mighty  grip ;  for  she  throbbed  with  nervous  anxiety 
for  the  man  she  had  loved,  and  to  whom  she  was 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         347 

still  drawn  by  a  subtle  power.  She  saw  Helen,  and 
caught  her  breath  with  a  quick  short  sigh.  She 
divined  all  that  the  wife  was  feeling.  Helen  did 
not  see  Nagy.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  immovably 
on  the  stage.  At  length  the  organ  tones  of  Mme. 
Olbaum  pealed  the  cry  for  air,  and  the  curtains 
glided  back,  showing  the  poop  deck.  Leander 
was  an  imposing  figure  as  he  stood  on  the  plat 
form.  Motionless  and  portentous  he  was  with 
his  towering  height  and  his  broad  shoulders.  And 
his  eyes  had  a  wonderful  look.  Webster  said  to 
himself  that  they  were  like  the  eyes  of  Niemann. 

"  Looks  well,  doesn't  he?  "  whispered  the  man 
behind  Helen.  "  I  didn't  suppose  that  senti 
mental  fellow  could  get  himself  up  like  that." 

Helen  stared  at  her  husband,  and  a  hot  mist 
came  over  her  eyes.  She  had  not  seen  him  for 
nearly  two  years,  and  in  an  instant  she  detected 
a  change.  She  knew  that  it  was  a  larger  man 
hood  that  confronted  her.  With  all  her  soul  she 
listened  when  the  Kurvenal  said,  "  Botschaft  von 
Isolde,"  and  Leander  opened  his  lips  for  the  first 
words,  "Was  ist's?  Isolde?"  His  tones  were 


348         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

equable,  thin,  cutting,  his  poise  untroubled,  his 
gaze  unmoved.  He  was  the  incarnation  of  trained 
coldness.  An  imperceptible  chill  went  through 
the  house.  It  was  the  first  grip  of  the  new  Tris 
tan.  Helen  thrilled  to  her  heart's  core,  for  she 
recognized  power.  When  the  tent  curtains  were 
closed  again  upon  the  riotous  outbreak  of  Kur- 
'venal,  she  sank  back  with  a  slight  feeling  of 
fatigue.  Leander  had  preserved  that  deadly  and 
imperious  coldness  throughout  the  first  scene. 
Even  his  golden  voice  had  taken  on  a  ring  of  steel. 
Helen  hardly  heard  the  great  scene  between  Isolde 
and  Brangane.  She  waited  for  the  entrance  of 
Tristan.  At  length  he  came,  slowly,  almost 
majestically,  striding  between  the  opened  curtains 
of  the  tent,  while  under  Kraft's  magic  the  orchestra 
sang  the  tremendous  measures  of  the  entrance  mu 
sic.  What  had  happened  to  Leandro  Baroni? 
People  all  over  the  house  were  beginning  to  realize 
that  this  incursion  into  a  new  field  was  not  some 
thing  to  create  the  idle  chatter  of  a  passing  hour. 
Baroni  looked  every  inch  the  mighty  hero  of  the 
antique  epic.  But  still  that  steely  voice  continued, 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         349 

the  expression  of  the  spirit  mightily  controlled. 
Presently,  however,  came  a  profound,  but  subtle, 

change. 

" '  War  Morold  dir  so  werth, 

Nun  wieder  nimm  das  Schwert, 

Und  fiihr  es  sicher  und  fest 

Dass  du  nicht  dir's  entfallen  lasst.' ' 

In  these  lines  the  color  of  the  voice  changed, 
and  there  was  for  the  first  time  a  shadow  of 
vibrato.  The  iron  Tristan  had  been  moved.  It 
was  a  little  touch  of  something  like  genius.  Those 
who  could  discern  it  sat  up  straight  in  their  seats. 
Was  this  the  old-time  Baroni?  Still  more  did  the 
tenor  open  up  the  turmoil  of  the  knight's  heart 
when  he  accepted  the  proffered  cup  and  prepared 
to  drink  what  he  believed  to  be  a  draught  of  death. 
And  then  followed  the  pantomimic  agony  of  love's 
outbreak,  the  shattering  of  the  bonds  of  honor. 
And  with  the  long  deep-breathed  sigh  of  "  Isolde," 
Baroni  suddenly  let  loose  the  whole  richness  of*his 
vocal  color,  and  chanted  in  one  word  something  of 
the  eternal  mystery  of  passion  which  he  had 
learned.  Helen  almost  cried  out  when  she  heard 
that  utterance.  It  was  not  the  old  self-conscious 


350         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Leander,   but  a  new  creation,   an   artist  lost  in 
the  splendor  of  his  art. 

Still,  the  audience  did  not  grasp  the  full  mean 
ing  of  it.  The  message  of  this  Tristan  was  yet 
to  be  spread  through  all  the  house.  With  the 
second  act  there  came  an  impression  such  as  the 
Metropolitan  had  not  known  in  years.  Helen 
herself  almost  forgot  for  a  moment  that  it  was 
Leander  to  whom  she  was  listening.  The  delivery 
of  the  duet,  "  O  sink'  hernieder,"  by  him  and 
Mme.  Olbaum,  was  something  never  to  be  forgot 
ten,  but  it  was  not  then  that  this  Tristan  affected 
his  hearers  most.  This  was  not  far  removed  from 
the  style  of  triumph  which  the  great  Baroni  had 
so  often  enjoyed.  But  after  the  entrance  of  King 
Mark  and  the  false  Melot,  then  there  was  an  ut 
terance  of  such  heartrending  pathos,  such  a 
probing  of  the  very  bottom  of  the  human  soul, 
that  men  and  women  in  various  parts  of  the  house 
were  visibly  moved.  It  came  with  that  agoniz 
ing  speech  beginning: 

"'Wohin  nun  Tristan  scheidet 
Willst  du,  Isold',  ihm  folgen?'" 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         351 

Helen  shook  in  her  chair  and  struggled  with  all 
the  resources  of  her  will  to  master  the  mighty 
waves  of  emotion  which  welled  up  within  her. 
She  knew  that  there  were  people  not  far  away  who 
recognized  her,  and  she  would  not  have  had  them 
detect  her  feelings.  She  turned  as  pale  as  death, 
and  when  the  curtain  had  fallen  she  went  out  into 
the  corridor,  and  then  out  into  the  lobby,  where 
she  inhaled  long  breaths  of  cold  air.  Meanwhile 
the  house  was  seething.  Men  and  women  were 
applauding,  and  the  name  of  "  Baroni,  Baroni," 
rang  through  the  place.  But  Leander's  attitude 
was  one  of  dignified  modesty.  His  deference  to 
the  superb  Olbaum,  who  had  given  the  audience 
an  Isolde  fit  to  stand  beside  his  Tristan,  was 
marked.  Finally  the  acclamations  ceased,  and 
people  poured  out  into  the  corridors.  There  was 
a  great  buzzing  of  comment. 

"  Good  thing  for  that  fellow  Baroni  to*  go 
abroad  and  study  a  couple  of  years,  wasn't  it?" 
said  one  of  the  wise  ones;  "wonder  where  he 
worked." 

"  I  hear  he  picked  up  some  old  beggar  from 


352         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

Bayreuth  who  used  to  be  with  Wagner,"  said  the 
other,  "  and  this  old  chap  has  coached  him  up  in 
all  this  sort  of  thing." 

;'  Well,  a  rattling  good  job,  too,  isn't  it?  You 
know  he  almost  makes  the  devilish  stuff  inter 
esting." 

Helen  managed  to  slip  back  into  her  seat,  while 
the  wise  ones  were  talking  to  one  another  in  the 
corridor.  And  then  came  the  last  act.  And  with 
it  came  the  deluge.  What  Leander  had  done  be-, 
fore  was  plainly  seen  to  be  preparation  for  this. 
Gaunt,  hollow-cheeked,  heavy-eyed,  he  lay  upon 
the  couch  of  pain  and  poured  out  the  misery  of  his 
soul  in  such  poignant  accents  of  grief  and  despair 
as  that  hardened  auditorium  had  never  heard  be 
fore.  And  when  at  last  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in 
the  delirious  vision  of  the  ship,  and  tore  the 
bandage  from  his  wound,  one  vast  sigh  and  shud 
der  swept  through  the  house.  The  piercing  agony 
of  his  tones  was  almost  more  than  the  audience 
could  endure.  Helen  fell  back  in  her  seat,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  hide  the  tears  which  streamed 
down  her  cheeks.  And  then  the  death  and  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         353 

sublime  Pax  vobiscum  of  Isolde,  sung  majestically 
by  the  great  Olbaum.  Men  and  women  with  one 
accord  said,  as  they  left  the  theater,  that  it  was  the 
greatest  performance  of  the  drama  ever  heard  in 
New  York,  and  that  Baroni  had  proved  himself 
to  be  the  foremost  heroic  tenor  in  the  world. 

"  Zichy,"  said  Leander,  when  they  were  alone 
after  the  performance,  "  do  you  think  they  felt  it, 
that  they  were  moved  by  the  drama  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Zichy,  swallowing  hard 
and  blinking  his  eyes,  "  I  know  they  did.  I  wish 
the  Master  could  have  lived  for  this  night." 

"  You  think  he  would  have  been  pleased?  " 

"  He  would  have  given  his  right  hand  to  get 
such  a  Tristan." 

For  answer  Leander  suddenly  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  shook  with  dry  sobs. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  friend?     What  is  it?  " 

The  tenor  looked  up  with  a  fathomless  sorcow 
in  his  expression. 

"  Zichy,"  he  said,  "  I  saw  my  wife's  face  for  an 
instant  to-night.  My  God!  What  have  I  done 
with  my  life?  " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

F  I  ^HE  morning  after  the  performance  Leander 
-*-  awoke  with  a  dull,  listless  feeling.  After 
all,  what  did  this  spiritual  progress  bring  him? 
He  was  fully  aware  that  he  had  risen.  He  had 
thrilled  through  every  fiber  of  his  being  on  the 
previous  night  with  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
at  last  a  true  servant  of  his  art.  But  this  morn 
ing  he  lay  in  his  bed  wondering  if,  after  all,  it  was 
worth  while.  For,  knowing  that  he  had  done 
something  uplifting,  that  he  had  poured  out  all 
that  was  best  in  his  resurrected  soul,  he  still  felt 
that  his  life  was  floating  upon  the  wayward  tide 
of  a  great  helplessness.  When  he  had  risen  and 
breakfasted,  he  sent  for  Zichy,  who  came,  bringing 
the  morning  papers. 

"  Good-morning,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old 
man;  "you  are  acclaimed,  indeed,  to-day." 

Leander  put  it  all  aside  with  a  weary  wave  of 
the  hand. 

354 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         355 

"  What  does  it  matter?  "  he  murmured. 

Zichy  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully.  The  aged 
musician  understood  the  real  cause  of  the  tenor's 
trouble. 

;'  Why  do  you  not  go  to  her?  "  he  said  softly. 

"  She  would  not  receive  me,"  answered  Lean- 
der.  "  I  have  closed  her  doors  against  myself." 

And  that  was  all  that  Zichy  could  persuade  him 
to  say  on  the  subject.  It  was  a  pity  that  the  tenor 
could  not  see  into  his  wife's  new  apartment  in  Cen 
tral  Park  West.  Unlike  him,  she  had  risen  with 
the  dawn  of  a  glorious  light  in  her  eyes.  She  felt 
that  something  new  and  beautiful  had  come  into 
her  life.  Leander  was  separated  from  her,  but 
he  had  found  himself.  She  knew  that  the  old  ar 
rogant  egotism  had  been  quelled.  In  no  other 
way  could  Leander  have  ascended  the  starry 
heights  of  art.  While  he  was  a  worshiper  of  his 
own  glory,  he  was  only  an  opera  singer.  But  now 
he  was  a  master.  What  was  to  happen  next? 
Helen  had  not  slept  well.  She  had  tossed  rest 
lessly  on  her  Led,  and  she  was  not  ashamed  to 
confess  to  herself  that  the  cause  of  her  restless- 


356         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TEXOR 

ness  was  a  passionate  yeanling  for  the  man  she 
loved.  When  she  had  dressed  for  the  morning, 
her  first  impulse  was  to  sit  down  and  write  hirn 
a  note,  telling  him  how  glad  she  was.  But  her  sec 
ond  thoughts  drew  her  away  from  any  act  which 
Leander  might  interpret  as  an  advance  on  her 
part.  It  would  be  a  mistake.  He  would  not  wish 
her  to  humble  herself.  If  he  still  cared  for  her, 
if  the  obliteration  of  Self  had  revealed  to  him  the 
real  value  of  her  love,  he  would  seek  her  again. 

At  noon  Philip  Studley  called  on  her.  She  had 
no  need  to  ask  him  what  he  thought  of  the  in 
terpretation.  She  had  already  drunk  in  his  col 
umn  of  warm  praise.  Philip,  keen  to  note  every 
shade  of  expression  in  her  tender  eyes,  saw  the 
unrest. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  you  have  not  reached  your 
goal." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

*  You  need  him,  my  dear  girl,  and  I  am  going 
to  add  that  he  needs  you.  He  will  never  be  com 
plete  till  he  has  rest  in  his  heart,  and  it  is  surely 
not  there  now." 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         357 

Helen  looked  thoughtfully  at  Philip  and 
said: 

"  How  can  I  be  sure  of  that?  " 

"  Tell  me  once  and  for  all.  Helen,  have  you 
any  feeling  now  about  his  past  relations  with  Mile. 
Bosanska?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly  and  deliberately; 
"  his  intimacy  with  her  was  one  of  the  greatest 
things  that  ever  happened  to  him.  It  aroused 
his  real  temperament." 

"  Then  there  should  be  really  nothing  in  the 
way  of  a  reconciliation." 

11  How  can  I  tell?  "  she  said  wearily;  "  I  do  not 
know  whether  he  really  desires  one.  Perhaps  he 
will  find  spiritual  repose  better  alone." 

Philip  took  his  departure  soon  after  that.  He 
went  to  his  club  to  luncheon,  and  there,  after  some 
deliberation,  he  came  to  a  determination,  and  he 
wrote  a  brief  note  to  Baroni.  In  it  he  said : 

"  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  take  two  liberties. 
First,  I  am  going  to  add  my  personal  congratula 
tions  to  my  professional  comment  on  your  genu- 


358         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

ine  Tristan  of  last  night.  Second,  I  am  going  to 
speak  as  the  oldest  and  most  intimate  friend  of 
your  wife.  She  will  be  at  home  at  five  o'clock. 
She  is  not  happy." 

Leander  read  this  note  with  a  flood  of  con 
fused  emotions.  For  a  moment  he  was  disposed  to 
resent  the  officiousness,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of 
Philip,  but  with  his  new  attitude  of  mind  he  soon 
realized  that  the  man  was,  indeed,  very  close  to 
Helen,  and  that  for  her  sake  he  had  a  right  to  go 
far,  if  he  thought  it  necessary  for  her  welfare. 
Then  a  wild  tumult  spread  through  all  his  veins. 
He  would  see  her,  he  would  look  once  more  into 
her  eyes.  Yes,  he  would  do  this  at  least,  even  if 
she  again  banished  him  from  her  sweet  presence. 
She  should  at  any  rate  know  that  he  had  at  last 
learned  to  know  her  worth. 

Helen  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir,  vainly  trying 
to  compose  her  mind.  She  had  a  strange  sense  of 
something  big  impending,  and  she  was  filled  with 
tremors.  But  she  knew  not  what  it  was  that  was 
coming  to  her.  When  the  bell  rang  at  five 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         359 

o'clock,  she  heaved  a  long  sigh  and  half  uttered 
a  wish  that  people  would  leave  her  to  her 
self.  The  next  minute  a  servant  entered  and 
said: 

"  Madam,  it  is  a  gentleman — really  a  gentle 
man — and  tall  and  handsome.  But  he  will  not 
give  a  card  or  a  name.  He  says  only  to  tell  you 
that  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

Helen  rose  and  dismissed  the  wondering  girl. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  questioning  the  possibil 
ities,  but  swiftly  the  certainty  came  to  her  that 
no  one  would  approach  her  thus  except  Leander. 
With  an  effort  she  steadied  herself,  and  presently, 
with  all  her  forces  well  within  her  grip,  she 
entered  her  drawing-room  and  saw  her  hus 
band  standing  by  the  mantel.  Both  of  them  hes 
itated  and  trembled  a  little.  Neither  knew  just 
what  to  do,  but  Helen  gathered  herself  together. 
She  smiled  kindly  and  held  out  her  hand.  Lean 
der  took  it  softly  in  his  own,  which  was  as  hot  as 
fire. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Leander,"  she  said  in 
a  low  tone.  She  was  almost  afraid  to  trust  her 


360         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

voice.     "  I  was  at  the  opera  last  night,  and " 

"  I  saw  you,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  I  am  astonished  at  that,"  she  continued 
calmly,  "  for  I  thought  there  was  too  little  light 
in  the  house.  It  was  a  great  performance." 

u  It  is  a  great  masterpiece,"  he  said;  "  no  per 
formance  can  reach  it." 

Helen's  heart  gave  a  quick  throb.  It  was  un 
speakable  delight  to  her  to  hear  Leander  use  such 
words. 

"  I  have  learned  something,  I  hope,"  continued 
Leander,  "  since  I  left  y — New  York." 

"You  have  gained,  indeed,  very  greatly,"  she 
answered. 

"  I  have  had  several  teachers,"  responded  Le 
ander.  "  First  of  all,  the  woman  with  whom  I 
was.  Helen,  I  should  be  less  than  a  man  if  I 
denied  my  debt  to  her.  She  first  showed  me  how 
small  and  mean  I  was,  and  led  me  to  the  gateway 
of  Art." 

"  I  shall  thank  her  for  it  as  long  as  I  live," 
answered  Helen,  her  voice  sinking  to  a  tremulous 
whisper. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         361 

Leander  sprang  to  his  feet.  A  flame  of  eager 
light  had  rushed  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  still  care?"  he  exclaimed,  "you  still 
care  enough  for  that?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  silence  between 
them,  and  then  Leander  fell  upon  his  knees  before 
her,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  upon  her 
lap.  There,  with  his  eyes  hidden,  he  spoke  rap 
idly  and  brokenly: 

"  Helen,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  be 
cause  you  will  not  wish  me  to  do  that,  if  you  still 
have  some  affection  for  me.  But  I  do  ask  you  to 
let  me  come  back  to  my  place  at  your  side,  if  not 
in  your  whole  life.  Let  me  strive  to  show  you 
how  I  honor  and  reverence  you,  how  I  have 
learned  to  understand  that  in  the  early  days  of 
our  marriage  you  were  entirely  right  in  every 
particular.  I  was,  indeed,  the  incarnation  of  self, 
and  because  I  was  that  I  charged  you  with  in 
ability  to  comprehend  me,  to  enter  into  my  artistic 
life.  I  know  now  that  I  had  not  any  artistic 
life,  and  that  the  only  artist  in  our  house  was 
you,  who  thought  great  and  beautiful  thoughts, 


362         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

and  who  would  have  led  me  to  noble  heights  if  I 
had  not  been  a  blind  and  obstinate  fool.  I  had 
the  paradise  of  a  man's  soul  beside  me,  and  I 
turned  my  back  upon  it  and  fled.  I  never  knew 
how  the  change  was  worked  in  my  soul,  but  that 
strange  creature  gradually  awakened  my  spirit. 
And  when  it  was  fully  aroused,  I  looked  into  the 
theater  one  night  at  Naples  and  saw  your  face. 
And  then  I  knew  that  I  had  thrust  myself  out  of 
paradise  and  that  there  was  only  one  thing  left 
for  me  in  this  world,  to  try  to  atone.  I  feared 
that  you  would  never  permit  me  to  speak  to  you 
again,  but  you  have  done  so,  and  you  tell  me  you 
still  care.  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  your  hand, 
my  dear,  but  you  will  let  me  live  near  you  and  try 
to  show  you  that  I  do  understand  better?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  felt  her  form  shak 
ing.  He  slowly  raised  his  head  and  gazed 
into  her  eyes.  She  gave  him  a  sad  look  in 
return. 

"You  will  not?"  he  said. 

"  I  cannot  take  you  on  those  terms." 

She  spoke  slowly,  and  Leander  bowed  his  head 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         363 

again.  He  thought  she  would  say  more,  but  she 
was  silent.  Suddenly  a  great  light  broke  upon 
him,  and  he  looked  up. 

"  Helen,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  love  you.  Dear 
heart,  do  you  not  know  that  I  have  learned  it? 
Do  you  not  see  that  the  supreme  crown  of  all  my 
revelation  has  been  the  full  understanding  of  that? 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  if  you  will  but  take  up 
again  the  heart  that  never  knew  itself,  it  will  be 
hereafter  a  shrine  for  your  image." 

Then  she  laid  her  two  beautiful  arms  around 
his  neck  and  drew  his  head  to  a  pillow  upon  her 
heaving  breast. 

"  Leander,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which  vibrated 
with  passion,  "  have  you  never  known  that  you 
are  my  idol?  What  do  I  want  of  atonement?  I 
care  nothing  that  another  woman  showed  you  the 
secrets  of  your  own  soul.  I  care  for  nothing  but 
to  lie  in  your  arms,  to  be  held  close,  close,  close  to 
your  heart,  to  feel  the  eternal  fire  of  your  love 
glowing  upon  me,  and  glorifying  me,  to  be  yours, 
my  husband,  yours  in  flesh  and  spirit,  to  grow 
wholly  one  with  you,  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with 


364         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

you  down  the  path  of  life  to  the  gate  of  death, 
and,  by  God's  will,  to  be  with  you  in  eternity." 

And  then  he  lifted  his  head  and  uttered  a  great 
cry. 

"  Helen,  Helen,  my  wife !  " 

Their  lips  met  in  a  kiss,  a  long,  clinging  kiss, 
such  as  Siegfried  imprinted  upon  the  lips  of 
Briinnhilde  when  he  woke  her  from  the  sleep  of  a 
goddess  and  led  her  to  the  triumph  of  woman 
hood. 


On  the  following  morning  Leander  was 
obliged  to  visit  the  office  of  the  impresario.  An 
humble  appeal  over  the  telephone  had  reached 
him.  The  great  man  spoke  very  gently,  and  the 
tenor  tried  to  answer  even  more  gently.  Helen 
went  with  him,  for  she  seemed  unwilling  to  take 
her  now  glorified  eyes  off  his  face  for  a  moment. 
When  they  were  ushered  into  the  bureau  of  the 
impresario,  they  found  it  unoccupied,  except  for 
one  figure  seated  in  a  shadowy  corner.  The  figure 
rose  and  revealed  the  great  green  eyes  of  Nagy 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR         365 

Bosanska,  which  regarded  the  pair  searchingly 
for  several  moments. 

"  I  perceive,"  she  said  at  length,  "  that  the 
prophecy  of  the  gipsy  has  been  fulfilled." 

"  I  have  been  told,"  responded  Helen  in  a 
gentle  tone,  "  of  that  prophecy,  and  I  believe  its 
fulfilment  came  about  because  in  the  end  the 
gipsy's  witchcraft  was  so  beneficent." 

The  two  women  gazed  intently  at  one  another 
for  a  moment,  and  the  quiet,  steady  confidence 
of  Helen's  eyes  was  triumphant.  Nagy's  bril 
liant  green  orbs  trembled  as  she  said  slowly: 

"  He  will  be  a  king  among  men,  for  you  are 
a  greater  woman  than  I  am." 

The  impresario  entered  and  told  Leander  that 
he  wished  to  give  one  of  those  seductive  "  special  " 
performances,  the  opera  to  be  (l  Carmen,"  with  a 

star  cast,  including  Nagy  and  the  tenor.    Leander 

* 

looked  at  his  wife,  who  smiled. 

"  I  shall  always  be  honored  to  sing  with  Mile. 
Bosanska,"  he  said;  "I  owe  to  her  all  that  I 
know  of  the  real  meaning  of  Art." 

And  when  Mrs.  Harley  Manners  heard  about 


366         THE  SOUL  OF  A  TENOR 

this  forthcoming  performance,  she  said  to  Philip 

Studley: 

"  Now  I  know  that  I  am  growing  old.  I 
thought  everything  was  at  an  end  between  him 
and  the  Hungarian.  I  don't  know  anything,  and 
I  don't  understand  what  I  do  know.  But  it's  a 
shame  that  they  don't  give  it  on  Monday.  You 
see,  I've  always  had  my  box  on  Monday  night, 
and  they  keep  it  for  me  from  season  to  season; 
so  what  can  I  do?  " 


ROMAIN  HOLLAND'S 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN       •       MORNING       •       YOUTH       •       REVOLT 

Translated   by   GILBERT   CANNAN. 


600  pp.    $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

It  commences  with  vivid  episodes  of  this  musician's  child 
hood,  his  fears,  fancies,  and  troubles,  and  his  almost  uncanny 
musical  sense.  He  plays  before  the  Grand  Duke  at  seven, 
but  he  is  destined  for  greater  things.  An  idol  of  the  hour,  in 
some  ways  suggesting  Richard  Strauss,  tries  in  vain  to  wreck 
his  faith  in  his  career.  Early  love  episodes  follow,  and  at  the 
close  the  hero,  like  Wagner,  has  to  fly,  a  hopeful  exile. 

'"Hats  off,  gentlemen— a  genius.'  .  .  .  Has  the  time  come  for  the  aoth 
century  to  uncover  before  a  master  work?  A  book  as  big,  as  elemental,  as 
original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to-day."— Springfield  Republican. 
(Entire  notice  on  application^ 

"  The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or  from  any 
other  European  country,  in  a  decade.  .  .  .  Highly  commendable  and 
effective  translation  .  .  .  the  story  moves  at  a  rapid  pace.  It  never 
lags."— E.  F.  Edgett  in  Boston  Transcript. 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET-PLACE 
ANTOINETTE         •         THE  HOUSE 

473  PP-     $1-50  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

A  writer  in  the  London  Daily  Mail  comments  on  the 
French  volumes  here  translated  as  follows : — "  In  '  The  Mar 
ket-Place,'  we  are  with  the  hero  in  his  attempt  to  earn  his 
living  and  to  conquer  Paris.  The  author  introduces  us  to 
the  numberless  '  society '  circles  in  Paris  and  all  the  cliques 
of  so-called  musicians  in  pages  of  superb  and  bitter  irony 
and  poetic  fire.  Christophe  becomes  famous.  In  the  next 
volume,  Antoinette  is  the  sister  of  Christophe's  great  friend, 
Olivier.  She  loves  Christophe.  .  .  .  This,  the  best  volume 
of  the  series,  is  a  flawless  gem.  '  The  House '  introduces  us 
to  the  friends  and  enemies  of  the  young  musician.  They 
gravitate  around  Christophe  and  Olivier,  amid  the  noisy  'and 
enigmatic  whirl  of  Parisian  life." 

It  is  worth  adding  that  toward  the  close  of  this  book  a 
war-cloud  appears  between  France  and  Germany.  Chris 
tophe,  with  Olivier,  visits  his  mother  and  his  Fatherland. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK. 


SOME  FORERUNNERS  OF  ITALIAN  OPERA 

By  W.  J.  HENDERSON,  Musical  Critic  of  The  Sun,  Au 
thor  of  "Richard  Wagner,  His  Life  and  Dramas,"  The  Art 
of  the  Singer,"  etc.  I2mo,  243  pp.,  $1.25  net.  By  mail,  $1.33. 

An  account  of  Mediaeval  lyric  drama,  showing  among 
other  things,  the  real  artistic  significance  of  the  birth  of 
recitative,  and  leading  up  to  the  introduction  of  opera  in  the 
last  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  Peri  and  Caccini. 

The  contents  cover  early  Liturgical  Drama,  the  Sacre 
Rappresentazioni,  Birthplace  of  the  Secular  Drama,  The 
Artistic  Impulse,  Poliziano's  "Favola  di  Orfeo"  (five  chapters 
covering  the  work,  the  performance,  music,  solos  and  or 
chestra),  Frottola  Drama  to  Madrigal,  Preponderance  of  the 
Spectacular,  Influence  ot  the  Taste  for  Comedy,  Vecchi  and 
the  Matured  Madrigal  Drama,  the  Spectacular  Element  in 
Music,  and  the  Medium  for  Individual  Utterance. 

"  A  delightful  introduction  to  Mr.  Apthorp's  'The  Opera  Past 
and  Present.'  .  .  .  A  landscape  full  of  varied  charms.  .  .  .  Highly 
suggestive  and  full  of  instruction."—  New  York  Tribune. 

11  Americans  will  visit  Rome  this  year  and  there  hear  some  of 
the  historic  operatic  performances.  .  .  .  They,  if  seriously  minded, 
will  do  well,  in  packing  their  trunks,  to  include,  besides  their  Baede 
ker,  a  copy  of  Mr.  Henderson's  new  volume.  .  .  .  The  writer  has 
studied  his  subject  exhaustively.  ...  Of  Mantua's  intellectual 
atmosphere,  its  activity  and  importance  as  a  literary  and  musical 
centre,  the  author  gives  a  vivid  picture." — Nation. 

"Chapters  which  show  patient  research  and  an  exercise  of  a 
finely  critical  faculty.  .  .  .  Scholarly,  and  contains  much  that 
is  new  in  the  way  of  conclusions.  While  it  is  chiefly  historical  and 
critical,  it  is  written  in  a  manner  that  holds  the  attention  and  the 
picture  of  life  and  manners  will  entertain  the  general  reader." — 
Boston  Herald. 

1 '  Many  musical  illustrations  from  early  Italian  composers  are 
given,  and  add  greatly  to  the  value  of  a  scholarly  book." — American 
Library  Association  Booklist. 

"It  shows  industry  and  learning  and  ...  it  is  written  in  fluent 
and  excellent  English.  .  .  .  By  long  odds,  the  most  entertaining 
and  illuminating  critic  among  us — a  man  whose  authority  is  exceeded 
only  by  his  charm  of  style.  .  .  .  The  music  of  the  period.  .  .  .  He 
gives  a  number  of  extremely  interesting  examples  of  it.  ...  An  ex 
tremely  interesting  and  informing  book.  A  valuable  contribution  to 
the  history  of  Music." — Baltimore  Evening  Sun. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  330  STREET  NEW  YORK 


BY    FILSON    YOUNG 


THE  WAGNER  STORIES 

Library  Edition,  $1.50  net.     Gift  Edition   (limp  leather) 
$2.50  net. 

An  account  of  Wagner's  music  dramas,  from  "The  Flying 
Dutchman,"  thru  "Parsifal,"  that  any  intelligent  reader  witn 
no  knowledge  of  music  may  understand  and  enjoy.  From  the 
sixth  English  edition. 

"Among  the  countless  descriptions  of  Wagner's  operas  it  may  be 
distinguished  for  its  literary  style  and  understanding  of  the  subject. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Eric  Maclagan's  rendering  of  the  songs  is  poetical  and 
lyrical." — New  York  Sun. 

MASTERSINGERS 

Includes  Tristan  und  Isolde,  Tschaikowsky's  Sixth  Sym 
phony  (the  famous  "Pathetique"),  Beethoven's  Pastoral  Sym 
phony,  The  Music  of  the  Cafes,  The  Spirit  of  the  Piano,  The 
Old  Cathedral  Organists,  Berlioz,  An  Irish  Musician,  etc. 
I2mo.  $1.35  net.  (Already  in  its  fourth  English  edition.) 

"Deals  with  music  at  once  humanly  and  critically  .  .  .  the  interpreta 
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MORE  MASTERSINGERS 

Music  in  Modern  Life,  The  Musician  as  Composer,  Inter 
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"A  vivid  account  of  the  revolution  in  orchestral  and  operatic  inter 
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reading." — 'Nation. 

"An  extraordinarily  faithful  picture  in  words  of  the  sensations 
produced  by  'L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faun'  .  .  .  He  can  describe  without 
offending  either  the  musical  or  the  literary  sense  of  his  readers.  .  .  . 
Keen  criticisni  of  the  conditions  of  Wagner  performance  at  Bayreuth." 
— London  Times. 

CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS  AND 
THE  NEW  WORLD   OF   HIS   DISCOVERY:  A  Narrative. 

With  colored  frontispiece  and  other  illustrations,  maps,  bibli 
ography,  index,  etc.  New  One  Volume  Edition.  464  pp., 
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During  the  past  fifteen  years  a  flood  of  light  has  been 
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.  .  .  Clothes  him  in  flesh  and  blood  and  breathes  into  him  the  breath 
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as  alive  and  real  as  one's  next-door  neighbor." — New  York  Times. 

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LAVIGNAC'S  MUSIC   AND  MUSICIANS 

Translated  by  WILLIAM  MARCHANT.     ^tk  printing. 

With  Chapters  on  Music  IN  AMERICA  and  THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF 
THE  ART  OF  Music  by  H.  E.  KREHBIEL.  $1.75  net.*  Practically  a 
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.  .  .  one  of  the  most  important  books  on  music  that  has  ever  been  published. 

ANGELO   NEUMANN'S   PERSONAL   RECOLLEC 
TIONS   OF   WAGNER 

With  portraits,  etc.     8vo.     $2.50  net.* 

By  the  famous  manager  of  the  Wagner  Traveling  Theater  that 
visited  Germany,  Holland,  Belgium,  Italy,  Austria,  England  ard 
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the  scenes. 

"The  most  important  biographic  contribution  to  musical  literature  since  the 
beginning  of  the  century,  with  the  exception  of  Wagner's  Letters  to  Frau 
Wesendonck."— H.  T.  Finck  in  New  York  Evening  Post.  (Circular  with  com 
plete  review  and  sample  pages  on  application  J 

WAGNER'S  ART,  LIFE,  AND  THEORIES 

Selections  from  his  Writings  translated  by  E.  L.  BURLINGAME, 
with  a  Preface  and  drawings  of  the  Bayreuth  Opera  House,  etc. 
$th  printing.  I2mo.  $1.50  net.* 

WAGNER'S  RING  OF  THE   NIBELUN6 

By  G.  T.  DlPPOLD.     Revised  Edition.      6th  printing.     $1.50. 

The  mythological  basis  is  explained.  (76  pp.)  Then  the  stories 
of  the  four  music  dramas  are  given  with  translations  of  many 
passages  and  some  description  of  the  music.  (160  pp.) 

BANISTER'S    MUSIC 

A  hand  book  on  musical  theory,     jth  printing.     80  cents  net.* 

"One  would  have  to  buy  half  a  dozen  volumes  to  acquire  the  contents  of 
this  one  little  book."— ^V.  Y.  Times. 

JOHNSON'S  (Helen  K.,  ed.)  OUR  FAMILIAR 
SONGS  AND  THOSE  WHO  MADE  THEM 

300  standard  songs  of  the  English-speaking  race,  arranged  with 
piano  accompaniment,  and  preceded  by  sketches  of  the  writers  and 
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*  Postage  8£  additional  on  net  books. 

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DOROTHY  CANFIELD'S  THE  SQUIRREL- CAGE 

Illustrated  by  J.  A.  WILLIAMS.     3rd  printing.     $1.35  net. 

This  is,  first  of  all,  an  unusually  personal  and  real  story  of 
American  family  life.  The  scene  is  a  middle-western  city  to 
day.  This  original  and  complete  version  of  Lydia  Emery's 
love  story  contains  much  not  in  its  serial  form. 

"  One  has  no  hesitation  in  classing  '  The  Squirrel-Cage '  with  the 
best  American  fiction  of  this  or  any  season.  Regarded  merely  as  a 
realistic  story  of  social  ambitions  in  a  typical  Ohio  town,  it  has  all 
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knows  vital  fiction  from  brummagen.  The  author  has  a  moving  story 
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thies  for  the  singularly  appealing  heroine.  The  characters  are  all 
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"  She  brings  her  chief  indictment  against  the  restless  ambition  of  the 
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American  wife.  ...  Is  admirably  done;  this  couple,  and  others, 
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"  A  remarkable  story  of  American  life  to-day,  worth  reading  and 
worth  pondering.  .  .  .  Her  book  is,  first  of  all,  a  story,  and  a  goed 
one  throughout." — New  York  Tribune. 

11  Admirable  work  .  .  .  true  art  ...  her  heroine  attracts  sym 
pathy." — New  York  Sun. 

R.  E.  VERNEDE'S  THE   FLIGHT  OF  FAVIEL 

With  frontispiece  by  GEORGE  VARIAN.     $1.25  net. 

This  story  is  a  new  version  of  the  author's  "  The  Pursuit  of 
Mr.  Faviel,"  which  has  met  with  artistic  as  well  as  com 
mercial  success  in  England,  and  introduces  a  promising  nov 
elist  to  the  American  public. 

Mr.  Faviel,  light-heartedly,  and  not  foreseeing  the  conse 
quences,  starts  to  win  a  wager  that  he  can  disappear  abso 
lutely  for  a  month  without  being  discovered  even  by  detec 
tives.  A  love  story  and  the  machinations  of  a  ruthless  rjval 
figure  in  the  diverting  and  unusual  complications  that  follow. 
The  climax  is  as  unexpected  as  it  is  agreeable.  There  is  con 
siderable  humor  as  well  as  the  spice  of  adventure. 

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BEULAH  MARIE  DIX'S  THE  FIGHTING  BLADE 

By  the  author  of  "  The  Making  of  Christopher  Ferringham," 
"Allison's  Lad,"  etc.  With  frontispiece  by  GEORGE 
VARIAN.  $1.30  net. 

The  "fighting  blade"  is  a  quiet,  boyish  German  soldier 
serving  Cromwell,  who,  though  a  deadly  duelist,  is  at  bottom 
heroic  and  self-sacrificing.  He  loves  a  little  tomboy  Royalist 
heiress. 

New  York  Sun: — "The  freshness  of  youth  will  charm  the 
reader.  .  .  .  Told  with  great  spirit.  She  has  written  her  romance 
with  dash.  The  heroine  is  very  attractive,  the  love  part  is  told 
delightfully." 

New  York  Tribune :—"  With  an  historic  background  and  atmos 
phere.  ....  Lovers  of  this  kind  of  fiction  will  find  here  all  that 
they  can  desire  of  plot  and  danger  and  daring,  of  desperate  encounters, 
capture  and  hiding  and  escape,  and  of  nascent  love  amid  the  alarums 
of  war,  and  it  is  all  of  excellent  quality." 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean: — "The  best  historical  romance  the  man  who 
writes  these  lines  has  read  in  half  a  dozen  years.  .  .  .  All  alive 
with  high,  bold  spirit;  it  has  true  atmosphere  one  cannot  but  breathe 
in  with  every  page.  .  .  .  The  heroine  is  a  dear  maid  and  innocent, 
yet  nowise  sweetish  or  tamely  conventional.  .  .  .  The  story's 
hero  ...  is  certainly  as  fine  a  specimen  of  fighting  manhood  (with 
a  gentle  heart)  as  ever  has  been  put  before  us.  .  .  .  He  lives,  mind 
you,  he's  wholly  natural.  .  .  .  Oliver  Cromwell  makes  a  brief  ap 
pearance,  but  a  striking  one.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  minor  characters  .  .  . 
are  as  well-drawn.  .  .  .  From  the  beginning  .  .  .  until  the  very 
end  the  story  holds  the  reader's  glad,  intimate  interest." 

DONAL  HAMILTON  HAINES'S  THE  RETURN  OF  PIERRE 

A  tale  of  1870.  The  adventures  of  Pierre — a  country  lad — 
the  woman  Pierre  loves,  her  father — a  fine  old  Colonel  of 
Dragoons — and  a  German  spy,  not  without  attractive  qualities. 
With  a  frontispiece  from  one  of  the  panels  of  Detaille's — "  Le 
Chant  du  Depart."  2nd  printing.  $1.25  net. 

New  York  Tribune: — "  Capital  studies  of  the  realities  of  war  as 
they  are  seen  by  a  French  conscript  .  .  .  the  panics  that  accompany 
their  obscure  heroisms,  the  range  of  their  emotions  before  and  during 
and  after  actual  battle.  Decidedly  worth  while  .  .  .  convincing  and 
gripping." 

Living  Age:—"Vonal  Hamilton  Haines  ...  has  accomplished  an 
unusual  thing.  ...  A  wonderful  blending  of  gentleness  and  nobility 
of  spirit  with  uncompromising  realism  which  make  this  book  one  of 
the  most  noteworthy  of  the  season." 

Boston  Transcript: — "His  descriptions  are  fresh  and  unstudied.  .  .  . 
A  clear,  forcible  presentation  of  an  element  in  war  which  is  too 
seldom  laid  before  us.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  war,  on  which  the  stress 

Postage  on  net  books  8%  additional. 

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BOOKS  TO  MAKE  ELDERS  YOUNG  AGAIN 
By  INEZ  HAYNES  GILLMORE 

PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.     $1.35  net. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children,  Phoebe  and  Ernest. 

"  Attracted  delighted  attention  in  the  course  of  its  serial  publication. 
Sentiment  and  humor  are  deftly  mingled  in  this  clever  book." — New 
York  Tribune. 

"  We  must  so  back  to  Louisa  Alcott  for  their  equals." — Boston  Ad 
vertiser. 

"  For  young  and  old  alike  we  know  of  no  more  refreshing  story." — 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

PHOEBE,  ERNEST,   AND  CUPID 

Illustrated  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.  $1.35  net. 
In  this  sequel  to  the  popular  ''Phoebe  and  Ernest,"  each 
of  these  delightful  young  folk  goes  to  the  altar.  The  chap 
ters,  which  have  already  created  such  interest  in  the  Amer 
ican  Magazine,  are :  "  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order " — 
"  Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God  " — "  Phoebe  Among  the 
Bohemians  " — "  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  " — "  Phoebe 
Closes  with  Cupid  " — "  The  Discoveries  " — "  The  House 
Book  "— "  I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland  "— "  Ernest  and  the 
Conspirators  " — "  Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird  " — 
"Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife"— "The  Found  Children." 

JANEY 

Illustrated  by  ADA  C.  WILLIAMSON.    $1.25  net. 
"  Being  the  record  of  a  short  interval  in  the  journey  thru 
life  and  the  struggle  with  society  of  a  little  girl  of  nine." 

"  Our  hearts  were  captive  to  '  Phoebe  and  Ernest,'  and  now  accept 
'  Janey.'  .  .  .  She  is  so  engaging.  .  .  .  Told  so  vivaciously  and 
with  such  good-natured  and  pungent  asides  for  grown  people" — 
Outlook. 

"  Depicts  youthful  human  nature  as  one  who  knows  and  loves  it. 
Her  '  Phoebe  and  Ernest '  studies  are  deservedly  popular,  and  now,  in 
'  Janey,'  this  clever  writer  has  accomplished  an  equally  charming  por 
trait." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  NOVELS 


ALL  THIS  POPULARITY?"  asks  E.  V.  LUCAS,  writ 
ing  in  the  Outlook  of  De  Morgan's  Novels.  He  answers  : 
De  Morgan  is  "almost  the  perfect  example  of  the  humorist; 
certainly  the  completest  since  Lamb  .  .  .  hardly  a  single 
page  is  free  from  a  smile.  .  .  .  Humor,  however,  is  not 
all.  There  must  also  be  enough  dramatic  interest  to  hold 
the  reader,  enough  fidelity  in  the  character-drawing  to  per 
suade.  ...  In  the  De  Morgan  world  it  is  hard  to  find  an 
unattractive  figure  .  .  .  the  charm  of  the  young  women. 
.  .  .  All  brave  and  humorous  and  gay,  and  all  trailing  clouds 
of  glory  from  the  fairyland  from  which  they  have  just  come." 
JOSEPH  VANCE 

The  story  of  a  great  sacrifice  and  a  life-long  love. 

"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy  ;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century."—  LEWIS  MELVILLE 
in  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

ALICE-FOR-SHORT 

The  romance  of  an  unsuccessful  man,  in  which  the  long 
buried  past  reappears  in  London  of  to-day. 

"If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence,  a 
quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De  Morgan." 
—Boston  Transcript. 

SOMEHOW  GOOD 

How  two  brave  women  won  their  way  to  happiness. 
"A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,   as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction."—  The  Nation. 

IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A  story  of  the  great  love  of  Blind  Jim  and  his  little  daugh 
ter,  and  of  the  affairs  of  a  successful  novelist. 

"De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is  than 
the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years.1'—  The  Independent. 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  very   dramatic   novel   of   Restoration   days. 
UA  marvelous  example  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  inexhaustible  fecundity 
of  invention.    .    .    .    Shines  as  a  romance  quite  as  much  as  'Joseph 
Vance'  does  among  realistic  novels."—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Begins  comfortably  enough  with  a  little  domestic  quarrel  in  a 
studio.  .  .  .  The  story  shifts  suddenly,  however,  to  a  brilliantly 
told  tragedy  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  embodied  in  a  g;rl's  portrait 
.  .  .  which  speaks  and  affects  the  life  of  the  modern  people  who  hear 
it.  ...  The  many  readers  who  like  Mr.  De  Morgan  will  enjoy  this 
charming  fancy  greatly."—  New  York  Sun. 

A  Likely  Story,  $1.35  net;  the  others,  $1.75  each. 

***  A  thirty-two   page   illustrated   leaflet  about  Mr.  De  Morgan,  with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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